


Counterpane

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28733460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: Young Frodo Baggins, growing up at Brandy Hall following his parents' drowning, falls very ill.
Kudos: 7





	1. Raindrops On Glass

**Author's Note:**

> The nursery-rhymes and songs used in this fic are largely adapted from My Very First Mother Goose, edited by Iona Opie and illustrated by Rosemary Wells, and from A Nursery Companion, "provided by" Iona and Peter Opie. Iona Opie and her late husband Peter are acclaimed scholars of this oft-forgotten area of study and have preserved many rhymes which, sadly, are rarely passed down in today's society. Given that many of the songs Tolkien himself wrote into The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and his poetry (see The Tolkien Reader) draw upon rhymes from these very collections (the man in the moon, anyone?), it seems plausible enough that Frodo's childhood might well have been filled with hobbit variations of these nursery-rhymes. . .hence Primula's whimsical little song about treats, tea, and rain, and the counting-rhyme she taught to her son so long ago.

When I was sick, and lay a-bed,  
I had two pillows at my head,  
And all my toys beside me lay  
To keep me happy all the day.

-Opening of Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Land of Counterpane," from _A Child's Garden of Verses_

It had been raining forever.

At least it seemed it had.

Sighing, Frodo lifted his fingers to the glass, sliding them lightly down the window-pane. He had been trying for two hours to lose himself in a book, but the effort had succeeded for perhaps half an hour at best: his head hurt, and his eyes ached, too tired to concentrate on the printed pages.

There was no good in anything else he could think of: most of his elders to whom he might go for conversation or stories were occupied, and those he might play with. . .well, those who weren't still ill were not yet in the mood for the kinds of things he liked; mostly they wanted things that seemed to him to take little imagination. The measles were going around, and practically every child in Brandy Hall (and a very few adults) who had not already had them had fallen ill. Frodo had not: somehow he had remained his usual self while his cousins fell ill, one after another, suffered through the fever and cough, then the rash, then the annoying convalescence, and as things were beginning to get back toward the normal jumble of life at Brandy Hall, most people barely seemed to recall that he existed at all. Everyone's attention was on the children who had been ill, their mothers fussing and coaxing them to eat well and get plenty of rest, avoiding any effort at pressing lessons or chores.

He wished Aunt Bryonia would return. Primula's second cousin once removed, she had promptly dubbed herself Aunt in his earliest visits to Brandy Hall, and when his parents had drowned, it was Bryonia who answered the question of who would look after their only child: having raised four of her own, she noted, not so very long before (her youngest now twenty-five and away working with an attorney all the way down in Michel Delving, in the Shire itself rather than in Buckland), she was more than aware of what taking care of a child would mean, and she and her husband were prepared to look after Primula's son. And look after him they had: for two years now, Frodo had endured the indignities of enforced bedtimes and lessons and the joys of mealtimes and family holidays under their guidance. Bryonia had nursed him through colds and coughs, even a bout of pneumonia only months after his parents' deaths; a warm, neat ladyhobbit of the organised persuasion, she reminded Frodo much of his mother, and for that alone he was willing to open his heart to her.

But she wasn't home.

They'd gone to visit her youngest son, delaying the long journey until it seemed that Frodo was likely safe, with most of the children in the Hall already well into recovery. After all, with a month into the epidemic and Frodo still showing no sign of spots or sniffles, everyone expected he had finally grown into a stronger constitution and smiled, patting him on the back. . .and giving their attention to the ill children, while Bryonia reassured him that the overly delayed visit was essential, that she would be back in a fortnight, and that his other relations would mind him while she and Uncle Miridoc were away.

They had. In a fashion. Mostly the routine of checking on him for the day seemed to consist of an aunt, uncle, or cousin poking a head into the dining-room to ensure that he was at most meals. "Frodo, dear, do you have enough breakfast?" "Yes, ma'am, thank you." "Good - that's good, dear - " And they were off again, summoned by the bell of a recuperating patient or a waiting list of their own duties. He was aware that someone should have been coming to tuck him in at bed-time, but that was such a busy time of day in Brandy Hall that it had happened only the first night. Since then, he had always been left to his own devices at bed-time. At first he had tried to stay up, but sleep overcame him quickly, and he fell asleep with a book still open beside him.

"Spoilt little brat, if you ask me, that's all he is. . .you know Auntie never does *anything* to him, no matter what he does. . . ."

"Well, of course she doesn't. She's afraid he'd do something silly like run off into the Blue, or something like that. . . . Or maybe wander into the Old Forest and get lost. . . ."

Frodo winced at the memory. Overhearing some of his cousins had been an enlightening, albeit painful, experience. It had been some three months ago, when he was getting over a bad cold and Bryonia had insisted on bundling him up before letting him outside again. His scarf and hat hiding his face rather thoroughly, he had stopped into the kitchen on his return, looking for a cup of hot tea or cider, perhaps something with milk instead. Two of his cousins were having tea, and scarcely paid attention to the fact that he was there. He doubted they had even recognised him.

Wishing won't bring her home any faster, he thought. With a sigh, he opened the book, trying to continue reading. . .but the words seemed to blur, and he closed it once more.

"FRODO! Afternoon tea. . .don't forget, dear; you'd best get downstairs. . . ."

As one of his aunts poked her head in, then disappeared again, Frodo sighed and set his book aside, rising. Time to go down for tea before someone came to drag him out of his favourite nook. He really wanted to stay there instead, preferably with a cool cloth over his eyes, but that was not one of the possibilities, and he knew it. Reluctantly he rose and prepared to go downstairs.


	2. Currant Swirls and Lullaby Memories

"FRODO! I'm not calling you again!"

Awakening with a start, Frodo shuddered, his cousin Forsythia's voice jarring him from sleep. As usual, she was knocking loudly at his door, shouting, before moving on to her next task: with so many occupied adults, the tweenagers were occasionally given the responsibility of fetching truant younger children. Looking at the clock, he blinked unsteadily. How could it be noon already? No. . .no, wait, yes, he'd. . .gotten up when called that morning. . .but had felt so ill that he slipped back into his room afterward, climbing back into bed without even bothering to undress.

He did not want to get up. Not even for a meal. He wasn't hungry at all, and everything ached.

"FRODO BAGGINS, if I have to tell Uncle Saradoc when he gets back, he'll tan your hide!"

This hardly seemed much of a threat to Frodo: Saradoc had never laid a hand on him, and the youngster doubted somehow that his uncle would do more than forbid some privilege and scold him. At present, it seemed worth the risk. Perhaps if he were lucky, Forsythia might tell one of the aunts, and someone might come to see about him. . .might tuck him in and bring him juice. . . .

The door swung open, letting in light from the sunny hallway, causing Frodo to wince at the change in lighting; he'd put out all the lights save that from the hearth and a small reading-lamp. Forsythia stood in the doorway, hands on her ample hips, shaking her head.

"Honestly! I can't believe you're so lazy. . .really, Frodo! Get up and come ON - time for lunch!"

He started to explain, to tell her that he felt ill. . .but she was already gone, slamming the door behind her. Wincing, he curled up for a moment, his head throbbing. . .but dutifully rose at last, smoothing halfheartedly at his raiment as he forced himself into a steady, if rather slow, walk.

Luncheon was the main meal of the day at Brandy Hall, given the erratic spread of household dinner- and supper-times, and today it was a combination he ordinarily liked decently enough: roast pork, currant jelly, applesauce, mashed potatoes, mashed squash, boiled turnips, and assorted pickles. Not his favourite meal in the world, but tasty enough, and filling. . .but he still didn't feel very hungry, and the thought of most food made his stomach twist into fresh knots. Shaking his head at the offers of roast pork, turnips, and pickles, he arranged small amounts of the remainder on his plate. . .applesauce, mostly, with mashed squash on one side, mashed potatoes on the other, currant jelly just across. Carefully he spooned up a bit, stirring it into his mashed potatoes in small reddish swirls. Forsythia was, fortunately, at the other end of the table, occupied for the present in making doe-eyes at Darimas Goldworthy, who was visiting his friend Neradoc, one of Frodo's more distant cousins, a good bit older than he.

Perhaps if he told one of the adults he wasn't feeling well. . .but whom? Everyone was busy, and the few attempts he had made had been brushed aside; he'd have to really set to the task to explain.

Aunt Amarantha, maybe. What would she do if he told her he wasn't feeling well?

Dose him with tonic.

Shuddering at the thought of the foul-tasting liquid, Frodo promptly abandoned the thought, tasting a spoonful of currant-swirled mashed potatoes, following it with a cautious sip of tea.

Uncle Peridoc?

Scold him for slipping out by himself, not always in the warmest clothing.

Frodo did not relish the thought of a lecture or a scolding: at times he simply had to be alone, and sometimes thinking was easier outside Brandy Hall than in.

Aunt Linnet?

No, she wouldn't do something as awful as that. . .she'd take his face in her hands and tilt it up, looking at him carefully in the light. She would run her hand lightly over his forehead, perhaps take him back to his room and put him to bed, which was sounding more appealing by the minute. He could hardly hope for her undivided attention: everyone was busy with so many children still recuperating, but maybe he could at least have someone tuck him into bed and have him left in peace, to sleep through it if possible. Yes, that was a good idea. . .Aunt Linnet would help, would ensure that he could rest until his Auntie Bryonia returned to care for him, to get him better. . . .

"Frodo, mind what you're doing - you know better than to play with your food, at your age!"

The blissful peace passed as Goldworthy and company left the table, leaving by now only Frodo and Forsythia. Shaking her head, her braid flopping a bit, his cousin sighed.

"Eat up, now. Uncle Saradoc will have fits if you don't."

"I'm not hungry, thank you." The words came out in a rather cross tone, however small the voice that delivered them. Almost at once Frodo winced: he hadn't intended to sound half so sharp as he had, but it was too late.

Forsythia glared at him with a look that would have melted the Brandywine during the famed Fell Winter. "Don't think that you're going to get your own way by pulling this. Everyone has enough to do without your whims; even I have to give up my afternoon to help watch Melilot and Mentha. The least you can do is eat something good for you, not just tea-cakes - "

"I don't want anything else. . .not trying to get my own way."

She blinked at him, then squinted, peering a little. "What's wrong? You ALWAYS like tea-cakes."

Frodo shrugged a little. "My head hurts. . .and my eyes."

"That's what happens when you fall asleep reading."

Indignantly Frodo scowled, pushing his plate away and rising. "Have you seen Aunt Linnet? I need to talk to her. . . ."

"Aunt Linnet's busy. She doesn't need you whining to her about some silly little headache you got from reading too much." Smirking, Forsythia shook her head. "Now, Bryonia and Marlidoc won't be back for at least another half the month, so the last thing we need is you complaining about everything. You really need to learn to be more grown-up if you want to play the little book-worm all the time. It's irritating enough, your always being off sulking on your own, without you complaining."

Frodo felt as if someone had struck him in the stomach. "But - they were supposed to be back within a fortnight - Auntie didn't send me a letter about it - "

"No doubt they're busy. I saw the letter to Uncle Saradoc myself. . .go into his study and look on his desk if you don't believe me." Forsythia shrugged, still grinning like a cat with a saucer full of cream. "But first, sit back down and finish your lunch. *I* have someone to find. . . ."

And with that, she rose as well, sashaying out of the kitchen as if she were the Mistress of Buckland herself.

Sighing, Frodo sat back down. Perhaps she was right, after all. . .Aunt Linnet was probably terribly busy with her own children, or other nieces and nephews, and the least he could do was try and stay out of the way until Aunt Bryonia returned. Reluctantly he prodded the mashed potatoes, now cold and thick, heavy lumpiness against the spoon. Wiping the utensil on his napkin, he tried a half-spoonful of applesauce, but it just didn't taste right. At last he settled for sipping his tea, pondering what to do. After half a cupful, he decided to return to his room and go back to bed. He longed for someone to talk to, preferably someone who could tell him stories. . .his eyes hurt too much for reading, but he was bored and frustrated, and wanted. . .well, not company exactly, but. . .someone to talk to him, a reassuring voice to listen to. . . .

Bilbo! Yes, that was it. . .he could write a letter to Uncle Bilbo. . .even if Bilbo couldn't come, maybe he would write back, and that, at least, would be something to look forward to. . . . Rubbing his temples, Frodo went to his desk, taking out a small handful of note-paper and his pen and ink before seating himself, wincing a little at the ache in his back as he eased into the straight-backed chair, beginning to write.

*Dear Uncle Bilbo -

How are you? I hope this letter finds you well. It seems so much longer than a month since I last saw you; I'm very glad you came for Yule.*

For a moment Frodo worried that this sounded silly. . .he'd already said that in his thank-you letter to Bilbo some three weeks earlier. Still, he didn't feel up to starting over, and it was already done. . .and Mamma always said one could hardly express gladness or gratitude overmuch. Biting his lip a little, he continued.

*I still miss you, though. Aunt Bryonia is away for a fortnight, visiting her youngest son in Michel Delving. She and Uncle Marlidoc should be back soon, I think, as it's been nearly that long, but I'm not certain: Forsythia said she'd heard they were staying longer than planned and wouldn't be back for another fortnight at the very least. I can't imagine Auntie wouldn't have written to tell me that if it were true, but maybe she's been too busy. I do hope they return soon, though.

I wish I could say that I were doing well, but actually I have not been feeling at all well lately. My head hurts all the time, and my eyes ache, and I'm too tired to do anything. Everyone's busy here, though, so I'm trying not to be any trouble. Everyone is getting ready for Candlemas, and most of my cousins have had measles and everyone's still busy with them too. I didn't get them, and Aunt Bryonia only went on to Michel Delving because everyone thought I probably wouldn't since I hadn't already and everyone's getting better, but I do miss her, because I haven't many playmates, and since I'm always being told not to upset them, we never get to do anything really fun, only quiet things for very short time periods, and much as I do like quiet activities sometimes, it's no fun having to mostly give people their way. So it's terribly boring here except for reading, which is always nice, but my eyes hurt too much for that lately. It's lonely and I wish you were here to tell me stories, or that I were there for it.

I know you are not often up as far as Buckland, but if you do come this way, I hope you might have time to stop and see me. Of course, I know you are very busy with your book and all your important matters, but I promise not to take up much time, and would like so much to see you again, even if only for a little while. I don't know how much fun I would be for company, as I really do not feel very well, but I am very lonely and would like it if you stopped by. In any case, thank you again for coming at Yule, and for everything else that you've done for me. I know I am very lucky.

Your nephew,

Frodo*

There. Blotting the ink, he let it dry for a moment, then folded and sealed it in an envelope, addressing it to Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Esq., Bag End, The Hill, Hobbiton, The Shire, then slipped downstairs to set it in the basket where the messenger always took their mail. On the way back up, however, he suddenly felt dizzy, and had to sit down abruptly in the stairwell, feeling chilled and a bit sick.

He missed his mother. She would have noticed he didn't feel well, would come and kiss him lightly, putting her lips to his forehead and frowning a little if she suspected he had a fever. . .would push his curls back from his face and take him in her arms, carrying him up to his room beside theirs, in their apartment, where she would put him to bed beneath his favourite quilt, between cool, clean sheets, flannel or cotton. She would help him out of his play-clothing and bathe him with a damp cloth wrung out in warm water before patting him dry and dressing him in a light night- shirt, tucking him in with a cool cloth for his aching head. And she would give him sips of juice or chamomile tea sweetened with honey. . .or warm milk with honey and spices. . .and mushroom broth, or applesauce with sprinkled cinnamon, not the regular plateful of stuff that made his stomach turn.

Come to that, perhaps it was best not to think of food or drink: his stomach was in knots, and he felt as if he might throw up if he tried to move at all.

She would sing to him, though. . .lullabies, to help him sleep. . .and his father would bring in a book and read to him, nothing so exciting as Bilbo's stories, but pleasant and comforting. . .and if he was too uncomfortable and restless to sleep, his mother would take him in her arms, take him to the rocking-chair and cuddle him close, rocking gently until he fell asleep at last, her voice lulling him to sleep.

He wanted his parents.

Taking a deep breath, he rose, steadying himself, and continued up the stairs to his room, falling promptly into bed. He felt strangely hot and cold all at once. . .wanted someone there. . .but the room was empty, of course. Feeling sick, the small one curled into a bundle, pulling all the covers over himself that he could and hoping desperately that he wouldn't throw up.

Maybe Auntie would return shortly after all. . .or maybe Uncle Bilbo would come. . . .

It was too much to hope for, of course.

With that thought, he drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with visions of hair-ribbons floating in the river. . .gently bobbing in the water.


	3. Cold

Mamma. . . .

He awoke with a start, gasping as if he had been held underwater. Everything ached: his head, his limbs, his back, his stomach. . .worst of all, his eyes, which felt as if they were on fire. Light was filtering through the curtains, forcing him to curl up on his side, back toward the window. What time was it? He could not bear to look at the clock; the effort of focus was too painful for his eyes. He felt cold and hot at the same time, damp and sticky with sweat. And his throat. . .

He half-expected to feel the touch of a cool hand against his forehead, a damp cloth dabbed at his face, someone's hands tucking the covers over him. . .but no one came.

Suddenly, though, there came a tap at the door.

"Frodo? You have to get up, lad - not good to sleep the day away - "

Uncle Daridoc. At first, Frodo tried to reply, opening his mouth to call out hoarsely, but the door was already open. . .and his uncle trotted in, looking about curiously, pausing and setting hands on his hips as he caught sight of the young orphan.

"Goodness, but what have we here?"

Frodo sighed. He felt sick and in no mood for games. Whimpering, he curled up, pulling into a small bundle.

"Something the matter, lad?"

Frodo nodded, though barely, his stomach in knots. "I. . .I don't feel v- v. . .very well."

"Well, now, that's too bad. . .bit of a cold, it sounds like, eh? Best if you stay away from your cousins, then - that's the last thing any of them need, on top of getting over being ill. I'll bring you up a bite to eat, some soup and whatever else we can find for a cold. How's that sound?"

The thought launched a wave of nausea, causing Frodo to shut his eyes tightly. "I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense, my boy! Doesn't matter whether you're hungry or not, you need to eat, especially you, scrawny as a little scarecrow - now, I'll bring that tray up and leave you in peace, all right?"

Mustering a weak nod, Frodo sighed and curled up more closely, pulling the blankets over his head and readjusting them just enough to uncover his face, turning the quilts into a hooded nest. He listened as his uncle's footsteps padded back out, the door closing quietly behind him. By the time his uncle returned with the tray, the youngster had already fallen back to sleep, sniffling occasionally in his dark dreams.

This time, waking was slow. . .almost a hesitant return to consciousness. Reluctantly he pushed himself up in bed. Uncle Daridoc had pushed a chair to the side of his bed, leaving the tray there, still covered with not only a tray-lid, but a thick towel, keeping in the heat. Despite his lack of appetite, Frodo pondered it for a moment: surely there would be something to drink, maybe juice or fresh water, possibly tea or milk. . . . He *was* terribly thirsty, and the thought of at least a few sips seemed comforting. Carefully uncovering the tray, he winced, stomach lurching at the assault of smells. Vegetable soup, a roll and a bit of butter, a mushroom and bacon sandwich cut in half, and a dish of stewed apples. Not a meal he would have ordinarily turned up his nose at - in fact, he would have been delighted with the choice of menu on most days, especially with the apples and the sandwich - but now it seemed unappealing. There was, however, something more. . .a cup of milk and a glass of apple cider, and the water- pitcher on the table by his bed had clearly been freshly refilled. Eagerly he reached for the amber drink, taking the glass in both hands to steady his hold before taking deep swallows of the cool cider. It felt so good against his throat. . . .

The relief was, however, only momentary. Almost at once he felt cold and unsteady, dizzy. . . . Recognising the growing sense of dread all too well, he shoved the glass back onto the tray and reached for the washbasin. . .but it was already too late. Retching, he curled up, vomiting into the blankets.

When at last the attack passed, he sank back against the pillows, shaking. Weakly he managed to push the top covers into a crumpled bundle, thankful he hadn't had one of his beloved quilts on the bed after all, and roll them onto the floor. This left him with nothing but a sheet and a lighter blanket, and though he felt sweat drenching his body, he was cold. He wanted Bryonia. . .she would have helped him get cleaned up and into fresh covers.

But she wasn't there. . .he had to be brave, take care of things himself. . . . That much he should at least try. . . .

Pondering this, Frodo sighed and sat up once more, nearly passing out from the effort. With difficulty he took the cup of water from the bedside- table, retrieving the washbasin and rinsing his mouth in an effort to prevent another bout of gagging. This done, he lay back down, trying to recover a little strength before attempting anything further. The smell of the soup was too strong. . .he would need to cover the tray back up. Then a night-shirt and more blankets. He couldn't understand how he could feel so cold and yet so hot at the same time, though he knew it meant he was ill. . .probably very ill. When he'd had pneumonia a few years before. . .the year Mamma and Papa drowned. . .he had felt a bit like this, though his eyes hadn't hurt, and he'd had mostly a bad cough that brought up blood now and then. . .and it had happened rather more suddenly than this had come on, at least as well as he could remember.

He'd thrown up then, too.

With a shudder, the small hobbit tried once more to rise, sitting up carefully, using his arms against the pillows to push himself up. . .and managing to retrieve the tray-cover, depositing it over the meal with a sigh of relief. This done, he braced himself. . .steady, steady, come on. . .and finally managed to stand, tottering uneasily toward the wardrobe, where he took a clean night-shirt from a drawer. Dropping onto the nearest chair, he fumbled with his shirt, unbuttoning enough to pull it over his head, then slipped on the night-shirt before standing again to pull off his trousers, abandoning the clothes where they lay. This done, he reached into another drawer, sifting through sheets and covers until he pulled out two soft blankets. He sat with them in his lap for several minutes before finally rising again, staggering back to bed and promptly unfolding the blankets over himself.

Much better.

Well, not really. He still felt at risk of throwing up again, and the fresh night-shirt would have felt better if he could have had a bath first. Nonetheless, this was an improvement, at least, so he decided to settle down and try to sleep again. Almost at once he felt himself succumbing, too tired to stay awake. . . .

Dark.

It was very dark.

He was so cold. . .where was Mamma? And Papa?

Sitting up and opening his eyes, rubbing them sleepily, he frowned: the fire had burned down to the last embers. That wasn't like usual; after all, Mamma always came in and put an extra little log or two on before she and Papa went to bed, and then she or Papa would come during the night or early in the morning and add another bit. . . . They never let it get this cold in his room. And where was Mamma? She always came to his room in the morning to wake him, bringing a cup of warm milk or cocoa and a bit of toast for him to eat while the main first breakfast was being prepared downstairs. At first, it had been her way of keeping him busy while she fussed over getting him ready, but now that he was all of eleven, almost twelve, it was more their special time. . .she would still help him get dressed and arranged for the day, but then she would sit quietly with him, talking about plans for the day.

It was still so dark outside. . .maybe it was too early? Mamma usually came just before sunrise. . .but then. . .why so many sounds of grownups in the corridors? That was what must have woken him. . . . Yawning, he rose and wandered out of his room, into his parents' sitting-room, where the hearth was even colder than his own, and over to their bedroom.

They weren't there.

Curious at the still-made bed, he pondered for a moment. Perhaps they'd stayed up all night talking, as they sometimes did with relatives. . .but then. . .why hadn't Mamma come or sent someone to see about him? That wasn't like her. . . .

Suddenly a chill of fright gripped the pit of his small stomach. Maybe they'd fallen ill, or had been hurt. . . . At once he turned, hurrying out of their room and into the hall.

Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda stood there, speaking in hushed whispers, Esmeralda's eyes wet with tears. Saradoc, pale and grim, shook his head as she asked something - Frodo couldn't tell what, exactly, but as Aunt Bryonia joined the pair, looking nearly as pale as Saradoc, the child had the feeling it wasn't anything good.

"Uncle Saradoc. . .what's the matter? I. . .I can't find Mamma and Papa. . .are they all right? Are they downstairs?"

All three adults turned, starting guiltily. . .and Esmeralda began to cry afresh, shaking her head. Bryonia knelt, putting out her hands to take Frodo's, now at his height. Saradoc dropped to one knee, still a bit taller than his nephew, putting a hand on the small shoulder.

"Frodo. . .there's been a terrible accident."

*********************************

Awakening with a jolt, Frodo gasped for breath. He was soaking with sweat again, and felt. . .so cold. . .frozen through, despite the perspiration drenching his hair and night-shirt. It was one of the nightmares he hated most, though he hadn't had it in a long while. . .one that was too real, because it had happened exactly that way. . . .

Looking up, he found that his hearth had dimmed down to the last embers. The room was cold.

Sighing, Frodo sat up unsteadily, pulling the topmost blanket around his shoulders as he braced himself to stand. Looking about, he found no one had come to retrieve the tray. The soiled blankets remained in a crumpled, sickening heap on the floor, and his clothes still lay discarded on the chair near the wardrobe. The clock upon the mantel-piece chimed three. . .but it was so dark outside it could not be afternoon. . . . He must have slept on into the night. . . .

Shivering afresh, he looked around. Aunt Bryonia was not yet back, and might not be for some time. Uncle Bilbo would take at least a few days to arrive, if he came. Even the servants would be asleep at this time of night. There was no-one to rekindle the dying fire, or to help him with a bath, or to change his sweat-drenched linens. He remembered feeling rather like this while ill with pneumonia. . .remembered Bilbo holding him and stroking his hair to reassure him, explaining. . .explaining something about it. . . .

"I know it doesn't seem to make sense, my lad, but that's because you're ill. I know you feel cold, but you're sweating because you've a fever. . .that's why we have to keep you from getting chilled; that'll only make it worse. If you didn't have pneumonia, only a cold, and caught a chill, you'd likely get it. . . ."

He couldn't stay here. That much was certain: it would be at least another two hours, if not more, before he had any hope of getting someone to relight the fire, and then only if he went downstairs to find a servant, something he doubted he was capable of doing: even now he felt dizzy and sick. He had to get to another room, somewhere warmer, and try to stay there until someone could help him with a fresh fire and clean bed. But where could he go? It would be too risky to ask to share a room with his cousins; there were some who wouldn't mind, but he couldn't dare risk making them ill, too. . . .

The library! Yes. . .there was always a warm fire blazing in the hearth there, and it wasn't too far. . .just down the hallway a bit and to the left. . . . He could rest there until morning, and it was doubtful his convalescing cousins would go there at all, much less before one of the adults came. . . .

Emptying the washbasin (just a bit of water from rinsing his mouth) into his chamber-pot, Frodo looked around, trying to decide what he could manage to carry of the things he should take. The wash-basin, definitely, in case he had to throw up again. . .a blanket or two, already draped over his shoulders. . .a cup of water would be good. . . . He set the basin down, taking the cup and drinking a little before pouring a bit more, spilling some onto the bedside table from the trembling of his hands. Glancing at the bed, he thought for a moment, then slid the washbasin into the case of a pillow, taking that up carefully before taking the cup of water. He was ready.

No-one was around to notice the tiny hobbit-child slipping into the hall. Bit by bit, he made his way to the library, moving in slow steps and leaning against the hall now and then, trying desperately not to faint. When at last he reached the library, pushing the great oaken door open softly, he breathed a sigh of relief. . .oh, yes, this *was* the right choice. . .there was a wonderful fire, and even. . .what luck!. . .a throw- blanket and some cushions on the sofa before the hearth. When he was little, and had been ill with mumps, Mamma had tucked him up in blankets on the sofa in their sitting-room. . .it was comfortable. . . .

He sighed. It wouldn't be the same, but it would do. Wobbling to the sofa, he set down the cup, placing it within arm's reach, then took out the washbasin and put that beside the cup, finally putting the pillow on the sofa. Keeping one blanket wrapped around himself, he climbed onto the sofa, pulling the throw-blanket and his own over everything, pulling up his legs to ease the tummyache that still lingered. What he wouldn't give for a hot water-bottle just now. . .actually, a couple of them, one for his stomach and the other for his feet. . . .

Stop it! he thought. That's about as much use as wishing for your parents, Frodo Baggins.

But his self-admonitions were of little avail. He *did* wish for them, for his father's strong arms to pick him up and his mother's soft hands to touch his brow. . . .

Swallowing back tears, he pulled the blankets more closely about himself, nestling into the cushions, the pillow a little flat but soft beneath his head. Yes, this would do. . .he could try to rest until someone came into the library in a few hours, and then he would ask if someone could have his room tended and help him back to bed when it was ready. . . . A shame his eyes hurt too much for reading; even in this low level of light a book would be a pleasant way to pass the time. He couldn't get really comfortable, much as he wanted to lie still: every position pained him, and he found himself frustrated by the necessity of constant shifting. Despite lying down, he still felt dizzy, his head aching.

Surely Uncle Bilbo would come. He had before. . .usually when Frodo was too ill to get out of bed he would come, bringing some treat or surprise, often not only from himself, but things from other relatives: while the other Bagginses had not been especially supportive of the newly orphaned child, as time passed, two or three began to take enough interest to send things with Bilbo, saying that they felt sorry for him. Frodo wasn't about to turn them down: after all, more often than not the surprises were sweets or special things to eat, sometimes a toy or puzzle or game. Dora always sent letters of advice on conduct with her gifts, but he didn't mind so much, since she always sent candy as well. Bilbo brought him books, though, too. . .including strange ones, unlike those in Brandy Hall, even a little book that was evidently a primer in one of the elves' languages. . . .

Maybe Uncle Bilbo would teach him a little more this time. . .once he felt better. . . .

Irritated by his aching eyes, Frodo retrieved one of the cushions behind his back, pushing the item onto the floor, whimpering as he tried to find a comfortable position. He still felt chilly, despite the warm fire. Coughing a little, he winced, closing his eyes and hoping to drift into a dreamless slumber. . .but instead, he dreamt of boats on the Brandywine and cold, cheerless rooms with dying embers in the hearths.


	4. Lost and Found

Hurt.

His stomach hurt, and his throat hurt, and he wanted a drink of water. The cup he had brought was long empty; he'd finished all that hours before, drinking between the fading fits of sleep. He really wanted some apple juice or maybe something warm, something sweetened with honey.

Daylight was already filtering into the library, forcing him to turn his face to the sofa-back, pulling the covers over his head in an effort to protect his aching eyes. His head throbbed, and he felt as if he had taken a bad fall, or been beaten. . . . Anxiously he wondered when one of the adults would come. He wanted to go back to bed.

"Frodo!"

Forsythia's voice. He looked up in panic. . .no, no, he was alone. Fretfully he tried to calm himself, to slow his breathing that caught at the least thing, inducing a dry cough.

Only my imagination, he insisted silently. Only my imagination. Bilbo says that fevers play tricks on the imagination.

"Frodo. . ."

Mamma! Mamma's voice, soft and sweet. . .so reassuring. . . . At once he put out his arms, knowing she would not laugh at him for wanting to be picked up and comforted, not when he was so sick. . . .

But no warm embrace greeted him. No soft shushing responded to his outstretched arms and exhausted whimpers. Disappointed, he folded back into a ball beneath the blankets, sobbing into the pillow, abandoning himself to the wait ahead.

"Frodo. . .Frodo. . . ."

An unfamiliar male voice, and not a hobbit's. . .this one had a strange accent, though fluent in Common Speech nonetheless. . .an. . .an elf? The tongue he used between speaking Frodo's name urgently sounded like the bits of elven-language Bilbo had begun teaching his nephew. . . . Weakly Frodo tried to answer, attempting to form a faint "Yes?" in Sindarin. . .but the effort caused him to begin coughing again. A searing pain shot through his left shoulder, and he felt himself fading into faintness, too dizzy to resist the unconsciousness claiming him. He could hear weeping, and it pained him to sadden anyone, if indeed it was that which was upsetting them. . .but he felt too ill to hold on. . . .

"Frodo. . .Frodo, sweetheart. . . ."

Someone touched him. . .someone's hand brushed his forehead gently, stroking back his hair. A soothing arm gathered him up, cradling him. . .and even with the sniffles he could detect the familiar, comforting scent of ginger and spice. . . .

"Oh, sweetheart. . .poor babe. . .Auntie's back. . . ."

He began to cry softly with relief, clinging to her. "You found me. . . ."

"Of course I found you, darling. . .I thought you might be here. . . ." She pulled him up, cradling him in her arms, holding him in her lap as she might an infant, rubbing his back. "I just got home, and came straight up to see you. When I found your room in such a state, I was worried, but thought you might be here since no one had seen you. . .and since you love it up here, I had a hunch you might have holed yourself up in here. . . ."

Sobbing, he nodded, gulping back sobs in his relief. "I. . .threw up. . .and the r-room was c-cold. . .the fire was o-out, a-and it w-was too. . .late. . .to. . .g-get anyone. . .to h-help. . . ."

"That was very clever of you, Frodo, coming here. . .not that I'm surprised, but VERY clever indeed! I'm only sorry you had to. . .poor darling. . . . They're cleaning it right now, though, and building a nice warm fire for you. Can you tell me how long you've been ill?"

"I'm n-not sure. . .days. . .I h-haven't f-felt well for almost a w-week. . .but I only started f-feeling really ill a f-few days a-ago. . . ."

"I'll send for the doctor as soon as we get you to bed. First I'm going to give you a bath, then put you to bed. . .after that, we'll see about something to eat. I'll bet you're thirsty. . .have you had anything at all?"

He shook his head. "Just some w-water. . .right after I g-got here. . . ."

"All right. . .we'll get you something to drink before your bath. . .you need to drink as much as you can, sweetie; now that I'm back you'll not have to do without, so I want you to try and take lots of sips for me. . . ." She hugged him tightly for another moment before rising, lifting him carefully. "Just a few minutes and we'll have you all nice and clean and back in bed, all right, pumpkin?"

Frodo nodded weakly. He felt too sick to think of anything but bed, though the thought of feeling clean and dry before getting into a fresh night- shirt and clean sheets was appealing: between the fever and the vomiting, he felt sticky and damp. Suddenly he felt a blanket being placed over his curls. . . .

"There now. . .I'm just going to put this blanket over your head long enough for us to get you back to your room, so the light won't hurt your eyes."

He nodded, grateful as she cradled him close, beginning the walk back to his room. It seemed so much faster than last night's journey. . .in only minutes, he heard the door close softly behind them and found the blanket being pulled from his head.

It was much better. A fire danced and leapt in the hearth, warming the room wonderfully. The floor was clean, and his bed stood ready, just folded down at the top, clean sheets and blankets crowning it beneath fresh, fluffy-looking pillows with crisp white cases. His bedside table had been cleared and cleaned, now boasting a fresh water-pitcher and several cups, with a glassful of tea-spoons and table-spoons standing beside it. The washbasin had been replaced, and a stack of folded flannels stood beside it; another washbasin stood by his bed. In the alcove where the bath-tub was, he could see a maid stacking towels on a chair beside the tub. Best of all, the curtains had been drawn closely: save for the fire, the only light was the glow of a few softly lit lamps. The room was quite dim.

"There now. . . ." Bryonia crossed to the window-seat, where a blanket had been spread out over cushions, and laid him down, beginning to undress him with gentle hands. "Tell me where it hurts, sweetheart."

"My stomach. . .and my throat. And I ache all over. . .my head especially. . . ." He winced a little as she eased his arms out of the night-shirt. "My eyes hurt terribly. . . ."

She nodded, bundling the blanket about him and brushing back the hair tumbling over his forehead. Frowning a little, she slid the fingers down, caressing his cheek lightly.

"It seems you're coming down with measles after all, pumpkin. Right here, along your forehead. . .and along your jaw. . .you're starting to break out. We'll have the doctor come and look at you to see if there's anything else we can do, but that's definitely it."

Frodo sighed, his bangs fluffing as he released the soft breath. He'd seen too many of his cousins suffering through miserable weeks of this to tolerate the thought very well; this meant he had at least a week and a half, possibly two weeks, of illness ahead. The thought was not a reassuring one.

Bryonia inspected his face and neck, then unwrapped him again briefly, checking over the rest of his body before wrapping him back up and motioning the maid over, signalling for. . .something. . . . To his delight, his aunt took a cup from the maid's hand, then lifted his head in the crook of her arm, tipping the drink to his lips. "Chamomile tea with a bit of honey, little one. Drink up; it'll ease your tummy and make you nice and drowsy again."

He drank eagerly. . .it *did* taste wonderful, and the warm liquid felt good against his aching throat. Aunt Bryonia helped him finish it all before setting the cup aside, lifting him into her arms once more.

"Ready for your bath, pumpkin?"

"Mmm-hmm." Resting his head upon her shoulder, he closed his eyes, allowing her to carry him to the tub and unfold the blankets, easing him into the water. At first, he shivered. . .but the water felt pleasant, neither hot nor cold, really. . .just warm enough to be comfortable. . .and he leaned back against the edge of the tub, where a folded towel lay ready for him to rest his head. Bryonia's soft hands dipped a flannel into the water, stroking his face with it before moving on to bathe his neck and shoulders, adding a small amount of soap. He still felt horribly ill, but the relief of having his aunt there was enough to reassure him.

At last he felt her lifting him from the bath, enveloping him in an enormous fluffy towel, warm and dry. She had even washed his hair, and began toweling it lightly, carrying him back to his bed and laying him on the downy blankets.

"There now, poppet. . .Auntie's going to tuck you right in. . . . Do you think you could eat a little breakfast for me? Nothing too hard on the stomach, just some porridge. . .crushed linseed with honey in warm milk. . .very good for upset tummies. . . ."

His stomach knotted a little at the thought of food, but he remembered being given that sort of porridge when he had had stomach flu. . .it did stay down, and the taste reminded him of his mother. . .of being rocked in her lap during his earlier toddler years. . . .

"I could try. . . ."

"Good. . .that's my sweetheart. . . ." Bryonia finished patting him dry, then eased him into a sitting position long enough to slip a clean night- shirt onto him before lifting his legs, pulling back the covers and sliding him into the nest of cool, clean sheets topped with warm blankets. "How's that feel? Any better?"

"Mmm-hmm. . . ." Oh, it DID. Much better. The sheets were soft flannel, the blankets comfortably warming, the pillows beneath his aching head blissfully fluffy. Everything felt soft and clean and comfortable.

"I'm glad. There's my good boy. Just lie nice and quiet there, and Auntie will get your porridge. . .and soon the doctor will be here and we'll see about some medicine to make you feel better. Is there anything you want? Anything I can bring you or do for you?"

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, thank you, Auntie. . .just some juice, please. . . ."

"All right." Her voice was soothing, with much of the steady, calming lilt he remembered in his mother's tone. "Just a few minutes and Auntie will have that for you. . . ."  
Frodo nodded gratefully, nestling into the covers as she tucked him in, so tired that he began to drowse again even while waiting, half-listening to her voice as she spoke to the serving-girl.

"Yes, apple, chilled if we have it, from the cellars – and send for the doctor at once. Go ahead and bring up plenty of cool water for washing; we'll need plenty of extra linens on hand, and see about a proper meal for when he's ready. . .soup, perhaps a nice baked custard, some applesauce. . . ." A little more murmuring. "No, no, nothing too spicy. . .I want something very soothing for him, nothing harsh or spicy. Let me know as soon as the doctor arrives." Footsteps. . .hers, comforting padding sounds against the floor before she laid her fingers against his forehead once more, stroking the mop of dark hair back from his brow. . . .

He was safe. Despite the continued sense of illness, that at least was a great relief. Closing his eyes, he curled up against the pillows, sighing as his aunt's gentle hand carefully stroked his hair.


	5. "A Very Sick Child"

"Auntie. . ."

"I'm right here, sweetheart."

Frodo whimpered as Bryonia sat on the bed, cradling him close. He hated to have her away for even an instant; the breakfast experiment had not been successful: he had thrown up again before the porridge even arrived. It was such a relief this time to be cared for and cleaned up and tucked into fresh bedclothing instead of having to see to things himself, but all the same he wanted his auntie there, hardly moving from his side.

Suddenly there was a soft knock at the door, followed by the voice of a serving-lass: "Dr. Headstrong's here, Mrs. Brandybuck."

"Good. . .send him on in." His aunt kissed his forehead, still holding him gently. "The doctor's just going to have a look and see what we can best do to take care of you and make you all better. . .all right, darling?"

Frodo nodded, still clinging to her. . .though as she laid him down gently, tucking him into bed before rising to speak with the entering familiar figure, he complied without struggling or fussing. She was still within sight, and it felt good to rest in bed. For many minutes he could hear them talking softly near the door. . .and then a familiar face bent over his bed, smiling reassuringly.

"Hello there, young Frodo. . .not feeling so well?" Frodo shook his head, allowing Dr. Headstrong to study him, placing a large hand across his forehead, looking at ears and eyes and nose, motioning for Frodo to open his mouth. "Stick out your tongue; there's a good boy – " Frodo complied, allowing the doctor to proceed. He paid only half-attention as he was prodded and pressed; it seemed too much effort to give anything much thought or notice just at present. A bout of coughing overtook him, and the doctor listened with a grave expression, at last nodding to Bryonia as the fit passed, returning to a nearby chair to take some bottles of medicine from his bag.

"Go ahead and undress the child, so I can have a good look at that rash."

Bryonia helped him sit up, easing his night-shirt over his head and promptly tucking him back in beneath the covers. Carefully the doctor took a seat beside him on the bed, smiling kindly.

"There now, lad. . .let's just have a bit more of a look and see how you are, shall we?" Frodo nodded weakly. "Tell me now, Frodo. . .do your eyes hurt?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"What about your throat. . .and your tummy?"

"Those too. . . ." Frodo allowed the doctor to fold back the covers, inspecting his chest and arms, then his belly. By now, he had broken out in spots everywhere, save for his legs, which were just beginning to show a flush of redness. Gently the doctor coaxed him to turn onto his side, folding the covers down to examine his back. After a moment, he looked up, nodding to Bryonia as he helped Frodo lie back comfortably.

"Oh, yes, it's measles, of course, as if you didn't already know that. . .but I'm concerned about his breathing; that cough's very bad even for measles. I'm afraid you've a very sick child indeed, Mrs. Brandybuck, and no mistake."

"I'm not at all pleased with how he's been overlooked while I was away. . .what can I do? My children never were this ill, so I rely on your instructions."

Dr. Headstrong nodded, wringing out a compress and folding it over Frodo's forehead, arranging it so that it covered his eyes as well. The youngster sighed and settled into the covers; that felt a little better. Lying quietly, he listened as the conversation continued, comforted by the sense of not being alone.

"You'll need to keep cool compresses on his brow like that. . .warm or cool applications wrung out in chamomile tea over his eyes, whichever temperature he finds more comfortable. He must stay in bed until the cough is gone; most likely that won't be until some days after the fever comes down, and often it's the last thing to go, but it is imperative that you keep him resting in bed until that clears entirely, especially given his history. Keep him sponged down to control the fever. . .use water the temperature you might for an infant's bath, perhaps a tiny bit cooler. He needs that at least twice a day, but you may need to do it more often depending on his fever. . .if he feels too hot for safety to your touch – I know you've enough experience with children to tell – then bathe him again, even if you've already done it several times that day. If he starts becoming confused, get the water a bit cooler. . .not ice-cold, but cool to the touch, such as one might prefer on a summer's day; fill the bath-tub with it and put him in until he feels cooler to the touch. . .not much warmer than normal. Then pat him off with a towel and put him back to bed, unclothed, just lightly covered, enough to prevent shivering. If his fever goes back up, repeat the process as needed. Do you follow me thus far?"

"Of course."

Frodo felt Bryonia's hand slide atop his hair, stroking his curls. It felt so reassuring that he relaxed a little, putting out his hand for hers, comforted as he felt her cool fingers close around his own smaller ones. The doctor continued, his voice half-lulling the sick child.

"Good. Now, it's critical that he take plenty of liquids and good nourishing food. . .try sips as often as he'll take them, and give small amounts of food every two hours when he's awake. Broths, soups, custards. . .liquids and soft things, easy to swallow, will be best. . .favourite foods especially, though if you can get vegetables and fruit down him that'll be very good indeed. Even a spoonful or two is better than nothing, particularly with this little one, slight as he is. If he wants something in particular, give it. . .but most children have little appetite at first. For liquids, you might try teas made from chamomile or mint or ginger. . .those will make a pleasant change from juice and water, and they're likely to help his tummy a bit. Children with measles often have some stomach trouble; those teas are good for it. Feel free to stir in honey. I know you mentioned he's been vomiting, but I think a bit of ginger will settle that soon enough."

He paused, and Frodo felt the compress being removed, then replaced after the sound of water being wrung out of it.

"The medicines aren't so important as the nursing, mind you, but they are important nonetheless. I'll leave them with you, ready-made. . .a syrup of wild cherry and lemon thyme with coltsfoot, to ease his cough; you'll need to give a table-spoonful or two of that after bad coughing fits in addition to giving two table-spoonfuls at bedtime. This one is for the fever and aching. . .give him a table-spoonful of that thrice daily as well. Honey's the best thing to ease that sore throat; you can give him a bit plain if the cough's too dry, but mixed into something to drink is better, to get him to take liquids. I'll be back every day or two, as I can, to see about him; if he appears to settle into the normal course, we can ease back, but I'm afraid to trust that he will just yet. If he complains of ear pain or chest pain, it is imperative that you send for me at once."

"Of course, doctor."

Frodo whimpered a little as Bryonia rose, but she bent over to tuck him in a bit more securely, reassuring him with soft shushing in soothing tones before following Dr. Headstrong to the door, talking with him in low volume once more. At last he heard the door close softly with a click. . .followed by her voice, the swishing of her skirts, the faint scent of spices. . . .

"There now, my little one. . .Auntie's here. . . . Now that the doctor's finished, we can let you rest. . .all right? Is there anything special you'd like to eat. . .or drink, perhaps? Anything in particular you'd like Auntie to get you?"

He shook his head. . .he felt too ill to try keeping anything down. . .and it was enough just to have her there. More than enough.


	6. Lost, Found, And Other Confusions

It was cold.

Too cold. Worse than winter. . .it felt as if he were outside without clothes in a winter like the Fell Winter of the tales his elders told, when the Brandywine River froze and wolves came across it. . . . The wind came through everything, howling in his ears.

He wanted to sleep, though. Just sleep. . .if he never woke up again, what would it matter? He was so cold. . .and so tired. . . .

Yet somehow there seemed to be something else. . .something that tormented him even through the drowsiness. . . . Something important. . . .

"Come on, sweetheart. . .just a spoonful. . .then I have something nice for you. . . ."

Frodo blinked, whimpering. His eyes ached, and opening them did nothing to help the matter. Someone cradled him in one arm, allowing him to rest against her soft bosom. . .he couldn't remember whom she was, though. . . . Not his mother; he was certain of that, but. . .someone who seemed to care about him, at least. . .she looked quite familiar. . . . She pressed a tea- spoon to his lips, rubbing them lightly. Reluctantly he swallowed, nearly choking on the strong taste: apple cider-ish, but still decidedly bitter. Yet as promised, something else touched his lips: something deliciously sweet and strong enough to rinse away the medicinal taste from before. . .currants! After the first sip, he drank eagerly, pleased by the taste of the hot liquid. Black currant jam, one of his favourite foods. . . .

"There now. . .there's a good lad. Sssssshhhhh."

The soft shushing was sufficient to induce him toward remaining very quiet, and he looked up at the lady again, still feeling rather confused. He was in bed, lying on clean sheets, tucked beneath quilts and soft blankets. As the lady eased him down, he found that pillows were propped behind him, keeping him comfortably raised. . .well, as close to comfortably as one could get, he thought, for he felt miserably achy. The room was very dim, lit only by the fire crackling in the hearth and a small lamp placed some distance from his bedside, for which he felt very grateful. The lady touched a cool cloth to his face, stroking his features with it, causing him to nestle a bit more securely into the array of blankets.

"Close your eyes now, poppet. There's a dear. Auntie's just going to put this nice compress on them to make them feel better."

He obeyed, glad of it as she settled something warm and damp over his face. Chamomile. Smelled of chamomile. But still he felt miserable, achy and depressed, and wanted nothing more than to get comfortable again. . .if such a thing were even possible, something he sorely doubted at the moment.

"I want my mamma, please - "

A soft sigh. "I'm sorry, Frodo. I can't get your mamma for you."

No. . .oh!. . .yes, he remembered now. . .only. . .only for a moment it had seemed to him that. . .well, as if it had never happened. . . . Thirsty, though. . . . "Please. . .drink. . . ."

"Of course. . .of course, sweetheart." Another moment, and a cup touched his lips, tilted so he could sip. More of the delicious jammy-tasting drink, hot and sweet. He drank it down, ignoring the soreness in his throat, until the cup was taken away. "Try to sleep, if you can."

"Mmmmph." He still felt headachy and sick. Anything sounded painful, but it was too difficult to stay awake anyhow. Slowly he allowed it to overtake him, pulling him into uneasy dreams.

*********************************************

"No - now, not yet, little bunny! Come on. . . ."

Primula lifted him in her arms, away from the cake on the table, and carried him over to the window-seat, settling in with him in her lap. With a mischievous smile, she reached toward the plate set beside them, holding up a sandwich cut into the shape of a mushroom. Frodo laughed, and she promptly held it out for him to take a bite, watching with a delighted smile as he ate it all up. Its filling was just like the shape - fresh mushrooms, his favourite -

"There's my good boy! Cake after, Mamma promises. . .but first I want you to eat up your lunch. . .so you'll grow up good and strong." She gave him a drink of milk from his cup, then held out another sandwich, this little one cut like a heart, with a red line of strawberry jam trimming the edges. Again he ate every bite, evoking a bright smile from his mother once more.

"Do you two need anything else?"

Frodo looked up, squealing with delight as Bilbo came into the kitchen, nearly upsetting the cup of milk Primula coaxed to his mouth. At once he put out his arms, causing both adult hobbits to laugh.

"I think we're fine, thank you, Bilbo. . .but I think someone has his own opinion about everything today!" Laughing, Primula allowed the elder hobbit to take Frodo into his arms. "Careful, now, no bouncing him. . .he's only just eaten a bit, and I'm sure you don't want those clothes ruined. . . ."

"Oh, it's fine, fine, Prim. . .there now. . . ." Grinning, Bilbo took a seat at the table, rather close to the cake. Frodo struggled to reach it, nearly escaping Bilbo's grasp at first, but the master of Bag End caught on quickly, putting both arms firmly around the lad. "Not yet, Frodo! Soon, soon, I promise!" He looked over at Primula, sighing. "I'm so glad you brought the boy by for us to have an early birthday-celebration. . .though I do wish you could be here for the day itself."

"As do I. But Father insists on our coming back before then, and - well, you know Drogo; he won't object, given that there's always a splendid supper when we get home." She laughed, shaking her head, dark curls tumbling about her face. "I don't know what's keeping him - he was supposed to just deliver a few mathoms and come right back."

"He'll be back soon. No doubt Dora's talking his ears off." Chuckling, Bilbo reached for another tray on the table, taking a small apple tart from it and popping the treat into his charge's mouth. Frodo ate it up at once, beaming as he looked up at his cousin.

"More, Uncle Bilbo! More!"

Both adults laughed, and Primula shook her head. "Frodo! What do you say? And he's your *cousin*, sweetheart. . .not your uncle. . . ."

"Thank you, Uncle Bilbo. . .please more?"

Bilbo chuckled, rewarding him with another miniature tart. "It hardly matters, Prim, after all. Drogo and I both know how it is not to be on much of a speaking turn with the rest of the Baggins family. We might as well be brothers, I'm sure. . .it doesn't matter. He knows who I am. . .don't you, Frodo-lad?"

Frodo started to nod, but as he looked up at Bilbo, the elder hobbit's features changed: before his eyes, Bilbo transformed into a hideous monster, something as wicked as the goblins in the tales Frodo had heard him tell, with fierce teeth and a fiery gaze. . . .

*********************************************

"Sssshhhh. . .there now, poppet. . .it's all right. . . ."

He awoke in someone's arms. . .one of his aunts. . .again? Why? "Please. . .Mamma. . . ."

"Oh, Frodo, sweetheart. . . ."

Why would they not call her in? Didn't she know he was ill? "No. . .Mamma. . .I want Mamma. . .please. . .please, go and get Mamma!"

"Ssshhhhh. . .sssshhhh, sweetheart. . . ."

He sobbed, struggling to get down from her lap. She didn't understand! Why wouldn't she get his mother for him? Strong arms held him, refusing to let him go, and he cried harder, prompting a fit of coughing which forced him to stop struggling. At once gentle hands rubbed his back, his aunt rocking him carefully back and forth.

Why? Why wouldn't she fetch Mamma?

Unless. . .

"M. . .M-Mamma isn't. . .ill, t-too, is sh-she?"

"No. . .no, poppet, she isn't." Cradling him close, his aunt sighed, though he could not understand why. "She's. . .gone away. . .but. . .if she were here, she would want you to rest quietly, and not make yourself worse with trying to get up."

He sobbed, dropping his head against her shoulder. Too tired to argue. Everything ached, and he felt so sick. . .his head ached, and his throat hurt, and he wanted his parents.

Movement.

She was taking him somewhere. Where? After a moment, he felt her sit back down, easing him against her as she unwrapped the quilt, easing his arms out of the night-shirt and pulling it over his head. . .then there was the sudden sense of water against his toes. . .then feet. . .then legs. . .as she began lowering him into something. . .a bath. . . .

"Easy, sweetheart. . .a bath will make you feel better. Auntie's just going to get you cooled down a little. . .and then we'll put you back to bed. Would you like something to drink?" He nodded eagerly. "All right. Good. There's a good lad."

He drank greedily as she held a cup to his lips. Chamomile tea this time. . .he recognised the taste, somewhat apple-ish and warm. He didn't like it as well as the black currant stuff earlier, but it would do. . .anything to ease the thirst and the dryness in his aching throat. Maybe Mamma would make more of that for him when she came back.

As soon as he finished the drink, his aunt set the cup aside, wringing out a cloth in the water and running it lightly over his face and neck, working on down to his shoulders. . .then arms, paying special attention to raising each arm and sponging liberally beneath it.

"This will help bring down your fever, poppet. . .it will help you, I promise."

He made a face, scowling slightly as he finally opened his eyes. He wanted to go back to bed. . .sleep till Mamma came home. . . . His eyes hurt, and the room was awfully dark. . .but he didn't think he could bear it any brighter, either.

"Rest if you can, Frodo, darling. Auntie will just finish your bath and take you back to bed. . .you don't have to do anything but rest. Close your eyes."

Sighing, he obeyed. Within moments, he felt himself drifting off as his aunt sponged his chest and belly, splashing cool water over his tummy.

*********************************************

"His pulse is still quite quick, but that is to be expected. As is the temperature. But I am concerned how this child will bear up, given his state of health at the outset."

A lady's voice. "He seemed confused earlier, even before he became delirious, and that worried me."

"Mm. Yes, a bad sign. He may grow delirious again toward evening; you'll have to watch him closely. It's important you make sure he does *not* get out of bed: being carried to the bath or held and rocked, that's fine, but sometimes children try to get up when they're out of their heads like this. Try to calm him with chamomile tea and a sponge-bath if you can." The lower voice again, this was. . .a gentlehobbit's. . . .

"Yes. . .yes, he tried earlier already, poor lad. Believe me, I'm not going anywhere. One of my sisters will come and help out once she settles her children tonight. He'll have someone with him at all times, I assure you."

He recognised the lady's voice. . .Aunt Bryonia's. . .couldn't place the other at first. Hands lifted the covers from his feet, and he whimpered in protest.

"I see the rash is nearly out. He may feel a bit better once that's finished."

The covers were lowered back over his feet, someone rubbing them gently. He tried to concentrate on what else they were saying, but sleep crept back over him, and he found himself drowsing off once more.

*********************************************

A hall. He was in a hall.

Not an ordinary passageway, though. . .like something in a mountain. . . .

What was he doing there? There was something important. . .but he couldn't remember exactly what. Did it matter? Of course it did, but he wasn't sure what it was. . .perhaps if he kept moving forward?

The passage seemed to grow hotter, and there was the stench of sulphur and smoke.

A dragon!

Or one of the fire-mountains he'd heard about, maybe? There were books that spoke of such places, though mostly only books uncle Bilbo had; most hobbits preferred books on geneaology and hobbit history and cookery of all sorts. His parents and aunts and uncles had shelves full of books, mostly about the history of Buckland and the Brandybuck family, about making three hundred different kinds of soup and about raising children.

It was so hot. . .and he was so tired. . .just wanted to rest. . . .

*********************************************

"How has he been? I came at once."

"He's had a very bad time of it, I'm afraid. Running terribly high temperatures and all. . .none of mine were ever this ill with measles, but of course you know how this little one is, bless his heart. . . ."

"Yes. . .yes, ever since that bout with pneumonia. . . ." A deep breath. . .another male hobbit's voice. Not the doctor's, though. . . . "Well, Dora sent up a basketful of things, and so did Mrs. Gamgee, my gardener's wife, bless them both. . .elderflower and gooseberry jam, strawberry conserve, even a jarful of chicken broth, all sorts of good things. . .and I've brought a few things myself, stopped by the apothecary's on my way out of town: syrups to make a bit of shrub with, some barley sugar, mint humbugs and sugar mice for when he's well enough. . .it sounded in his letter as if he's been having rather a hard time of it. I don't think he wants to burden anyone with fretting over him, poor lad. Oh! I've candied ginger, too. . .that might help settle his stomach, always has. . . ."

"He'll love that - there's one medicine that's still bitter, apple cider vinegar and willow and such, and he hates taking it - but it's to help with the fever and the pain, and I can't leave it off - "

"Of course not, of course not. . . ."

Frodo tried to place the voice without opening his eyes: there was a compress over them, and they still ached. Wasn't the doctor. . .wasn't Papa. . .wasn't. . .no. . .could it. . . ?

Warm hands touched his face. He could smell hints of ginger and pipeweed. . .Longbottom Leaf, the favourite of. . . .

"Uncle Bilbo?"

"Yes! Yes, Frodo-lad. . .I'm here." The hands lifted the compress, and Frodo blinked, reaching up to rub his aching eyes.

He still looked younger than Papa, even, despite being older.

At once Frodo began to cry. It was all too much.

"Sssssshhh. . .there now, lad, it's all right. . . ." Lifting the sick child gently, Bilbo settled him against one shoulder, rubbing his back. "I won't be going anywhere until you're well; your Aunt Bryonia agrees it's for the best. . .sssshh now. . . ."

Frodo managed a nod, blinking back the tears that stung at his eyes, making them burn. Aunt Bryonia leaned over them, folding another compress and settling it over his eyes. Of course, he could not see Bilbo. . .but that hardly mattered. Uncle Bilbo was there.


	7. Slow Creeping Fire

The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. -Charles Dickens, _Oliver Twist_

Apple.

He recognised the taste of apple. . .sweetened just a little, and cold. Greedily he drank, taking as much as whomever it was would allow: there was a damp cloth over his eyes and forehead, and it smelled a little strange, but he wasn't as worried about that. As long as he didn't have to put it in his mouth, he didn't care.

"All right, now, Frodo-lad. . . ."

Bilbo!

It hadn't been a dream. Uncle Bilbo. . . . Frodo could hardly help smiling a little: he felt relieved, having half-feared that he might wake to find Bilbo's arrival another of his dreams. But no, it was real. . .now, if only someone weren't poking a spoon at his lips. . . . Reluctantly he opened his mouth, hoping for more of that apple drink or some honey. . .or some of the jam Bilbo mentioned earlier. . . .

Bitter. Acid.

At once he gagged, pulling back and spitting out the contents, trying not to throw up as the effort provoked a fresh bout of coughing. Strong hands lifted him into a sitting position, the cloth falling from his eyes, revealing Aunt Bryonia at his bedside, the offending spoon in hand; Bilbo on the other side, the one holding him. Folding into Bilbo's arms, he tried not to cry, but his eyes burned and stung with the prickle of hot tears. They ached.

"Now, now. . .there, Frodo; it's all right. I know it's nasty stuff. But it will help those terrible aches and pains, and bring that nasty fever down. . .don't you want that?"

Bilbo's cajoling had little effect: Frodo shook his head, clinging fretfully to his uncle, who rubbed his back, rocking him in slow, steady movement.

"Sweetheart. . .there's more of that nice apple tea for afterward, or black currant jam tea. . .whichever you like, just as soon as you swallow down one spoonful." Aunt Bryonia's voice sounded nearly desperate.

"No. . .no, can't. . . ."

Bilbo patted his back. "Not even if I hold your nose?"

"No. . . ." A bout of coughing seized him, and he hacked and choked for several minutes, the dry cough pounding painfully at his chest as Bilbo held him.

"Not even if I have candied ginger for afterward?"

Frodo hesitated. Candied ginger was a treat. . .one his parents had sometimes bought him when they went into town for the day, and one Bilbo had always brought when he came to visit. . .something that always eased chills and calmed his tummy if he'd been throwing up, the only sort of candy he was usually allowed to have when very ill. . . . "I. . .can't. . .have. . .any. . .before?"

Silence.

"Bilbo, we really should ask the doctor - "

"Fiddlesticks! Bit of candied ginger never hurt a child with measles. It's not as if I brought those sugary lollipops. . .though, mind you, now that I mention it. . . ." Bilbo touched his face, and Frodo turned to look up at him, head still resting against his uncle's shoulder. "Frodo, there's the candied ginger and there are herb lollies. I know you've had them before; we've given them when you've been getting through coughs and colds before. A bit of chamomile, a bit of mint, those sorts of things. You may have one before and one after, so long as you take the medicine."

Frodo considered, but the memory of the vivid taste was still so strong that he shuddered, shaking his head.

"Goodness. . .goodness me, then. I suppose if you can't, you can't." Bilbo's voice carried a strange sort of resignation, and Frodo looked into his face curiously. His uncle's expression was quite serious. "Such a shame, too. . .because I happen to know what's in my bags, and I'm sure you would find some of it most entertaining. . .but if you're too sick to take your medicine, you must surely be very ill indeed. . .far too ill for special things all the way from far-off lands I visited in my travels. . . ."

Willing his stomach to stay settled about the matter of that medicine, Frodo snuggled into the crook of Bilbo's arm. "I'm. . .not. . .please, Uncle Bilbo. . . ."

Bilbo shook his head firmly. "Now, Frodo-lad. . .that's far too much excitement for you without your medicine, after all. If you can't take it, you can't take it. . .but if you can't, I suppose you'll just have to lie extra-quietly and extra-still in bed to try and keep the fever down. . . ."

Sighing, Frodo bit his lip. It was too much to resist. "Could I. . .have some ginger. . .before. . .*and* after. . .please? And then will. . .you. . .show me. . .something. . .you've brought? I. . .I promise I'll. . .be quiet. . . ."

A smile warmed Bilbo's features, and a tense sigh - relieved, Frodo thought - came from Bryonia. "Of course, of course! First some ginger, then some medicine, then more ginger, and *then* a present. And wait until you see it, my boy!" Still supporting Frodo firmly against him, he poked one hand into a pocket, rummaging about for half a moment before producing a small piece of candied ginger, which he brought to his nephew's lips. Eagerly the young hobbit took it in, sucking on the treat quietly as his uncle resumed rubbing his back, soothing and coaxing. "Is there anything at all you'd like to eat, Frodo-lad? I know it's hard to feel much like nibbling at anything when you're ill, but we've got to keep up your strength. Your auntie says you ought to be taking a taste of something every couple of hours, and you haven't been doing that for us. . . ."

Still sucking on the ginger, Frodo mulled this over, still feeling hot and cold all over. "Not hungry. . .don't feel like it. . . ." He didn't feel at all interested in eating. . .truthfully, he felt rather as if anything left in his tummy was trying to come out the other way.

"All right, then. All right, lad." Soothingly Bilbo continued to massage the small back, rocking his nephew in a steady rhythm. At last Bryonia stepped closer, pouring a dose of the hated medicine and putting it to Frodo's lips.

"There now, poppet. . .drink it all down, and you can have some more ginger."

Reluctantly Frodo opened his mouth, tasting. The bitterness was still so strong that he barely managed to stifle a gag, relieved when Bilbo promptly popped another piece of ginger into his mouth.

"There's my good boy. In just a few minutes we'll have your present. . .all right, Frodo?" His small charge nodded, resting against his uncle's shoulder once more. Yet this lasted only a moment. . .the young hobbit found himself feeling increasingly uncomfortable, and cast Bilbo a desperate look. "What is it, lad?"

"I. . ." Lowering his voice a bit, Frodo glanced nervously at his aunt. Close as they were, he still preferred Bilbo for such matters, if possible. "I have to go. . . ."

"Go?" Bilbo's brow furrowed in confusion. "No. . .no, my lad, you don't have to go anywhere. . .you're safe in your own room. . . ." Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in realisation. "Ah! You mean. . . ."

Frodo nodded firmly.

Looking up, Bilbo cleared his throat slightly. "Bryonia, I think the boy would rather have a bit of privacy. . .I'll stay with him and help him."

"Are you certain? I don't mind - "

Frodo shook his head and Bilbo did likewise. "No. . .no, go ahead."

"All right. I'll be back in a bit, then, pet. . . ." Bending to kiss Frodo's mop of curls, she reached beneath the bed, setting the flatter vessel for bed-use on the empty chair next to Bilbo's, then made her way to the door and disappeared, the knob turning quietly behind her. Having difficulty with even this wait, Frodo whimpered as Bilbo shifted position, setting the vessel on the bed and easing it under his nephew, pulling the night-shirt up. Thankfully, Bryonia had left him in just the gown after his bath. They were just in time: the young hobbit allowed his uncle to lean him back against the pillows, rubbing the small stomach with a light touch, Frodo's few stomach-contents rapidly evacuated.

When it passed, Frodo nodded for Bilbo to help him, and the elder hobbit eased him onto one side, holding him there while removing the vessel, then taking a cloth and gently wiping the small backside. A moment later, warm dampness touched him: Bilbo had retrieved another cloth and finished cleaning him thus before patting dry, turning his nephew back over and tucking him in more securely, stashing the chamber-pot in its cupboard below the bedside-table. Waiting alone while Bilbo rose to wash his hands, Frodo sighed with relief as his uncle brought back a fresh cloth, bathing the puffy, reddened face and hands.

He hated being ill.

"Frodo-lad. . .how about that present now? Would that cheer you up?" The swollen little face nodded up at him without smiling. "Good!" Grinning broadly, Bilbo bent over, poking about in a large travelling-bag by his feet.

But suddenly Frodo felt. . .strange.

The room seemed to spin, and Uncle Bilbo's voice took on a distant, hollow quality, sounding very far away. Frodo felt something being put into his hands: he could tell it was a toy, and could see it, but somehow he could not work out what it was, or what was happening. . .what time of day was it? Where were his parents? No. . .his parents. . .his. . .his mother and father were. . .dead, yes. . . .

"Frodo?"

He heard Bilbo's voice as if from underwater, and tried to answer. . .but, feeling too dizzy, shut his eyes tightly. At once a cool cloth was laid over them, and he could hear the bustle of footsteps, the rustle of Bilbo's waistcoat and Aunt Bryonia's petticoats. . . .

They were talking, and he could hear them, but it was too much effort to distinguish each word.

". . .doctor. . . . . .this. . . . . . .terribly wrong. . . ."

"I'll try. . . . . . . . .drink. . . . . .something. . . ."

He could feel the object in his hands, something solid and firm, hard with bits of cloth over polished surfaces. Ordinarily he would have been quite excited to see what it was, but he felt so dizzy, and it was easier just to lie still and try not to make it worse, the way his mother would have urged him to rest had she been there. . . .

"Come now, Frodo-lad. . .just a few sips for me. . . ."

Bilbo's voice. A cup at his lips. He lapped faintly at the cup and tasted the apple drink from earlier, sipping more readily as he recognised the flavour. . .but the cough was back, and he had to turn away, the hacking exhausting.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He could see Mamma and Papa again. . .if something happened. . . he'd been so ill that winter that he almost had, and sometimes he half-wished it had happened.

More than half.

He couldn't follow Bilbo's voice any more, or Auntie's. Too tired.


	8. The Sense Of Touch

He could hear them. Calling. He didn't want to answer. Too tired. He didn't want medicines or even that new toy. . .he wanted Mamma.

His eyes were on fire.

There was. . .a deep chasm, a gaping rent in the ground, a lake of flame filling it far below. The air felt heavy with waves of heat that seared his throat, oppressively thick with ash and sulphur. It was like a wall of flame-intense heat.

And yet. . .he *had* to be there. Somehow he knew that he could not leave.

"Frodo - "

He blinked, his throat too swollen, his mouth too dry, to swallow, let alone speak. That voice.

"Frodo, darling - "

Mamma? He turned.

There she was, standing close against a wall of ashen rock, just as he remembered her.

"There's my poppet. You've been such a good boy. . .but you're very tired now, aren't you, sweetheart?"

He could only nod, eyes stinging with what would have been tears.

"That's all right. Mamma's here now. You can rest."

She approached slowly, the way one might approach a frightened puppy.

"Just put it on, poppet. Put it on, and we can go home. . .and you'll wake up in your own bed. Only a dream."

His hand reached, involuntarily, for a chain that hung about his neck: fine silver, tiny links, and something upon it. . . .

It hurt to breathe. Why was he breathing so quickly, as if he'd been running? His heart felt as if it were racing, and he suddenly felt so breathless that he wanted to sit down, to rest against a stack of pillows. . . .

"Only a bad dream. . . ."

She reached out her arms, then, and he found himself suddenly seized by hands. . .grasping, choking, strong hands. . . .

*********

With a start he began to cough again, choking, his chest aching with the effort. Someone sat him up, causing him to sway dizzily, feeling as if he might throw up. Breathing was still painful and tight, and he felt. . .funny, for lack of a better word. . . . He sniffled, his nose dripping again, and a hand dabbed a handkerchief to his face.

"There, lad, there. . . . Bryonia, how soon can the doctor be back here? Blast it, I'm sure Gandalf wouldn't mind turning him into a toad-stool for the lawn if he can't be bothered. . . ."

"Hush now! You'll have half the Hall in here. . .he's coming as quickly as he can, they said." Someone dabbed at his face and chest with a damp cloth. . .he didn't seem to have his night-shirt on any more, but he felt too hot to mind, and pushed at the covers. A hand caught them, forcing him to stay tucked in beneath the sheet, quilt, and counterpane. "Now, sweetheart, you have to stay covered up. . .you're very sick. . . ."

He whimpered, and someone leaned him forward a little, propping him against soft feather-pillows as someone sponged his back and bottom with cool water.

*********

Someone else was bathing him. . .but it was someone strange, with hands too large for a hobbit's, and too smooth and soft for Gandalf's. . . .

He opened his eyes. The room seemed strange, with carved beams in the ceiling, and flat. He lay in a rather large bed. . .someone had dressed him in a fresh night-shirt, no doubt the same person who had bathed him.

Gandalf. . .he remembered talking to Gandalf. . .and then. . .falling asleep again. . . .

"Drink, Little One."

Gentle hands raised his head a little from the pillows; someone put a cup to his lips. . .one convenient for use by someone ill, for it had a tiny spout like a tea-pot's, an invalid's cup. He drank dutifully, delighted to taste a light chicken broth with hints of mushroom in the flavouring.

The person feeding him must be the same: he recognised the way the hands felt. Looking up, he discovered that it was an elf, tall and stately. . .one with long hair the colour of midnight, raven hair smooth as silk and straight as the beams along the ceiling, held back by a silver circlet. He sat on the bed beside Frodo, yet his weight seemed hardly to affect Frodo's position, with no tilting of the mattress. Grey eyes. . .wells of strange sadness and wisdom, it seemed to Frodo. . .met the hobbit's blue eyes, and the stranger smiled gently.

"How are you feeling?"

*********

He had no chance to answer.

Already he felt himself plummeting into darkness.

Someone wiped his nose, which was running again, and still felt horribly stuffy.

Couldn't open his eyes. . .too dizzy, and they still burned.

But he could hear voices again, three of them this time. . . .

". . . . . . . . . high fever . . . . . . diarrhea . . . ."

" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pneumonia . . . . . . complication . . . . . . ."

"We've . . . . . . . . .cool sponge-baths, but . . . . . . . . . ."

"He . . . . . . . . . . . . fluids . . . . . . ."

". . . not likely . . . live through . . . night . . . ."

He couldn't understand. Pneumonia was what he'd had not long after his parents died. . . . But. . .then he'd heard you could have it with measles, too. . .that was how people died from them. . . . Mostly his cousins had just gotten over them, or had had earaches. . . . But breathing *was* harder now. . . .

Suddenly he had to go again, and whimpered, hoarsely murmuring, "Bilbo - " in hopes that his uncle would understand. Hands eased him up, sliding the pot beneath his hips, a warm hand rubbing his tummy until the spasm passed. He was turned back onto his stomach, face down in bed, while someone wiped, washed, and dried his bottom. Someone patted his back, rubbing it soothingly.

" . . . burning up . . . . ."

Hands lifted him. . .within a moment, he was being put into water, into some sort of bath. . . . Another bout of coughing choked him: it felt like knives slashing into his chest, a stabbing pain, and he began to cry. Someone rubbed his back and shushed him, cradling him gently. Whomever it was, they were probably getting wet from the water that was halfway up his chest, but they didn't seem to mind.

"Thirsty. . . ."

A cup. . .milk-punch, not very strong, and not particularly what he wanted, but anything. . .anything to sip, anything that might ease the burning thirst.

He drank eagerly, but felt too weary to pay further attention to whatever it was they were doing. A familiar voice was singing a little tune, a poem he had loved since he was quite small. . . .

"The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know: The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow, And there in the twilight, how jolly to see The cocoa and animals waiting for me. . . ."


	9. Mathusgioloth

Where was he?

Frodo struggled to open his eyes, but there was something heavy over them. . .a very damp cloth, wet with some smelly stuff, like an herbal mixture. At once he reached to remove it, wincing, his body aching as if he'd tumbled down every flight of stairs in Brandy Hall thrice over.

"Ah-ah-ah, lad. None of that, now."

A hand caught his, clasping it tightly and lowering it once more. He tried again, and this time both hands were caught.

"Ssshhhhhh, Frodo. You have to lie still, sweetheart." Aunt Bryonia's voice this time. . .but. . .where was he? Surely he couldn't be in his room, not when it was still so hot. . . .

Someone laid a wet sheet over him. He struggled, whimpering, ready to fuss. . .this wasn't right, somehow. . .where was he, and why did he feel so miserable? Where was Mamma? Why wasn't she with him?

No. . .that's right. . . .

She was dead.

No doubt Aunt Bryonia, however, had decided he was too much of a bother. . .she was just saying those things.

. . . They must be trying to punish him somehow. . . . Perhaps that was it. . . .

Wait.

How did he know it was even her, and not some monster using her voice?

Maybe monsters had come and stolen everyone's voice. . .Auntie's, and Uncle Bilbo's, and Mamma's. . . .

Yes.

He had to get away.

He had to escape.

At once he struggled desperately, kicking and pushing, but it was not enough. . .there were too many, and he was too weak. Someone held his legs tightly, while someone else clasped his arms. . . . Abruptly he felt strangely careful hands against his bottom, and something being pushed in. . .then liquid. . . . With his legs held fast, he could do nothing save allow it, his dignity more pained than anything else.

They had him.

There was no hope.

*********

They had him.

Why had he been left alone?

Someone had been with him. . .someone he knew well, and loved dearly. . . .

Why had he been abandoned thus?

The monsters were everywhere, and seemed to delight most in tormenting him, kicking him and jeering. He had curled into as tiny a ball as possible, but the lashes of the whip made that position impossible to maintain: against his will, his muscles reacted, pulling him open, and another of them kicked him in the stomach, causing him to cry out with pain.

"Where is it, little filth? Whatever it is you're hiding, best give it up now!"

*********

He ached.

Every part of his body groaned in protest.

He wanted to die.

Surely that would be better than this. . .anything would, but. . .in death, it was said, families were reunited, ailments made whole.

Uncle Bilbo said that the elves sailed somewhere, far over the Sea, to the West, when they wearied of life in Middle-earth. And Big Folk, according to the great books in Elrond's library that Uncle Bilbo heard stories from, and was trying to translate, go to a special place prepared for them by the Valar.

Where do hobbits go, then?

Bilbo had had no answer for that.

*********

Words. . .strange, yet. . .clear, and. . .oddly beautiful, though he had no idea what they meant. . . .

And then he did.

He recognised them, somehow, though it was more that he somehow *knew* that he understood. His mind could not make them make sense in his head, and yet in this moment, he knew that he recognised them.

It was dark.

And it was raining.

But he smelled a sweet fragrance on the air.

And suddenly then it seemed to him that a grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass, and was rolled back. . .and he saw white shores. . .

. . .and beyond them. . .

. . .a far green country under a swift sunrise.

It was not the Shire.

And yet it was, he knew, home.

*********

Bed.

He was back in bed, with someone holding his legs.

Slowly he tried to move his arms, to reach out. . .but they were fastened tightly.

His bed had, long ago, been his crib as a toddler, and the thick wooden rails had evidently been re-attached, cushioned with pillows, his arms held fast at the wrists by sheet-pieces tied to the bars. Why?

Weakly he opened his eyes, blinking with pain that caused him to wince even in the dim light.

Bilbo held his legs, holding them up like an infant being diapered; the doctor was there, and held in his hand a bit of tubing that Frodo recognised all too well.

"Bilbo. . . ."

The look of relief that brightened his uncle's tired features surprised the young hobbit: Bilbo nearly droppped the small legs, barely catching himself as he bent over the bed, kissing Frodo's forehead.

"Frodo, my lad! There now. . .just rest. . .we didn't want to fasten your hands, my boy, but you were striking everyone that tried to get near you, and kept trying to get out of bed; we hadn't much choice, or you'd have done yourself an injury."

"Bilbo. . ." Frodo glared at the doctor, making a face. "Don't WANT him. . . ."

"I know, lad. . .I know, and I'm sorry." Bilbo stroked his hair, smoothing dark curls. "But you're very, very ill, and you've been delirious from the fever. We need to give you medicine to make your tummy better, and to help you sleep deeply, so you can get well. That part's been over for a while. . .you've had a bit of medicine to make you very drowsy. The doctor's about to give you something more to help, and then you can rest. We won't have to do this again for a few hours, and then we'll try not to disturb you too much."

Frodo watched skeptically. . .the doctor *was* putting away the tubing. . . . "But I'll. . .I'll rest. . . . I'm not. . .out of. . .my head. . .now! Let. . .me. . .alone. . .please. . . ."

Bilbo shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, my lad. We can't. The fever is so high that you've already had a fit from it. We can't risk another. We had to give you the medicine, and we'll keep you sponged down with nice cool water." Still stroking Frodo's hair with his free hand, cradling the little legs in his other arm, he nodded toward the bedside table. "What about something to drink? Would you like something to drink, my boy?"

To drink?

At once Frodo nodded eagerly, indignities forgotten. "Mmm-hmm. . . ."

"Good. . .there's a good lad." Bilbo nodded to someone. . .Bryonia was there, hurrying over to pour something into a feeding-cup, which she held to his lips as Bilbo raised his charge's head slightly.

Cool water.

Deliciously cool water. . .lovely and wet and perfect. . . .

He drained the cupful, finishing it eagerly.

"More, please. . . ."

"All right, poppet. . .in just a moment." Bryonia set the cup aside, reaching for a spoon. Pouring some sort of mixture from a small bottle which she first shook vigorously, she turned back to the bed, offering. . .not the nasty syrups from earlier this time, but something else. . . . "Just swallow this down, blackberry and chamomile with ginger and peppermint, that's all it is. . .and then you can have some nice broth to wash the taste down. . .and as much water as you want."

He wrinkled his nose, but opened his mouth, swallowing the spoonful of medicine dutifully. The flavour seemed a little rich, and burned a bit. . .blackberry brandy with some herb things. . .but nothing like the vinegary mixture of earlier.

"Slowly now."

He sipped, tasting chicken broth. . .very plain, a little weak, but quite good. . .though he wasn't hungry. After three mouthfuls, he raised his hand as best he could in the restraint, turning his head away.

"No more? Not even another sip for auntie?"

"Can't. . . ." He didn't want any more, only water.

"All right, then. There, poppet."

Frodo closed his eyes, drinking with relief as cool water was brought to his lips once more. Bilbo lifted his legs, gently bending them back toward his belly, and the doctor bent over. At once the young hobbit whimpered, attempting to pull away. . .but Bilbo held his legs fast, though his expression seemed to wrinkle a bit with anxiety.

"No, Frodo. . .I'm sorry, lad. So sorry. But we have to. Just a bit more medicine. . .and then you can rest."

Scowling fretfully, Frodo pulled away from the cup as he had to cough again - a harsh, dry feeling that scraped viciously at his throat and pounded his chest. He saw the doctor's head come up sharply. Everyone was watching him, and he didn't like it. . .all he wanted was to be left alone to get better, with Bilbo there to give him water if he couldn't have his mamma and papa, which still seemed somehow a matter open for some question.

Bilbo folded the legs gently against Frodo's tummy as one would adjust a baby's, closing them in the grip of one arm and taking something from the doctor, allowing the other to come around to join Bryonia, replacing her at the bedside as he laid an icy-cold hand on the flushed, spotted forehead. At the same time, Frodo felt Bilbo's hand at his backside, inserting a bolus.

"There now, Frodo-lad. . .you're being such a good boy. . . . We'll let you rest for a while, and I'll fetch one of those bottles of shrub I brought for you. Blueberry. You'll like that. Sssshhhhh."

Did he have a choice?

His eyes hurt, and he closed them, tears trickling down the sides of his face as he felt his ankles being loosely tied with soft sheet-pieces, each fastened to its side of the bed.

He wanted to go *home.*

If only he knew what or where that was. . . .


	10. Gingerbread Rabbits & Sugar Ponies

Hush, my dear, said the old lady softly. You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, - as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear! With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and lovingly in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.

Save us! said the old lady, with tears in her eyes, What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!

Perhaps she does see me, whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.

That was the fever, my dear, said the old lady mildly.

I suppose it was, replied Oliver, because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though, added Oliver after a moment's silence. If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

-from Chapter 12 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

It was dark.

Very dark.

Maybe he was blind now, and they were afraid to tell him. Grown-ups had a way of hiding things like that. . .of concealing the truth from you, pretending they knew better. Grown-ups always thought they knew best. Most of the time they didn't really, but that didn't stop them from acting it.

Maybe he would never be able to see again. The thought made his eyes prickle with tears. . .they ached dreadfully. He had never thought eyes could hurt so.

Oh. . .no. . .no, now he could make out shapes. . .the room was dark, rather, and it must be night-time, or else they had darkened it, and turned his bed so that he could not see any fire in his hearth. The lack of even dim lighting was disconcerting, though.

Not half so disconcerting, however, as what happened next.

He felt vaguely aware of his legs being lifted, knees tucked back against his tummy as they had been before. . .and then. . .someone inserting the hateful tubing once more. At once he tried to struggle, but hands held him fast, an arm going beneath his knees and the other over his legs, holding them firmly in place. Damp cloth held him down from the tummy on up, and his wrists were still tied. . .his ankles had been fastened too, hadn't they? The struggle seemed to take his breath, and he began to cough, his chest pierced with pain. Someone reached behind him, rubbing his back. . . . Then a cup held to his lips. . .sharp. . .but a bit of sweetness, then. . .white wine and hot milk. . .with. . .powdered sugar, maybe? His aunt had made this for him before when he was ill; he recognised it. . .though he couldn't recall why she'd have been looking after him. . . .

"There now, Frodo, easy. . .don't fight us. . . . We're just trying to help you get better. Ssshhhhh."

The gentle voice seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. . .not Papa or Mamma. . . . But that thought was distracted by the irritating sensation of liquid going into the tubing, then into him. . .more medicine. . . .

He felt too exhausted to fight any longer. Too tired. Someone patted his forehead with a damp cloth, then wiped his drippy nose, causing him to wince: he was so sniffly that even his nose hurt.

"Poor poppet."

Another moment, and there was another damp cloth. . .someone dabbed gingerly at his nose again, patting his face clean, then began touching his nose. . . .

Salve.

Some kind of pleasant salve or cream, like the kind Mamma used on her face, only less smelly. . .marigold. He recognised the scent. That kind that one of his aunts was named for. Cal. . .Callie. . .Aunt Callie. . .what was her full name?

His back itched, causing him to squirm miserably. The person finished applying salve to his nose and upper lip, then continued, rubbing it gently over his chin and then onto his neck.

"Bilbo, I've some lotion and things. . .as soon as the doctor finishes, I may need your help."

Frodo whimpered faintly as a slightly familiar shape released his legs and began swiftly fastening them back to the bed-railings.

Why?

*********

He must have dozed off, somehow, he realised with a start, for he lay now on his stomach rather than his back, no longer fastened down. Someone was powdering him, and he vaguely recalled being rubbed with a light lotion. . .his tummy hurting, having to use the chamber-pot again, someone cleaning him. . .all in a half-sleepy daze, as if a dream, some nightmare. . .except that it was no dream; it had happened, or was happening, for someone was powdering his back and bottom, patting him reassuringly, as if he were a baby.

And he didn't mind, to be frank. He felt ready to cry: he wanted Mamma, and could not remember where she was, only that whomever was tending him, she was not his mother, and the other was not his father. . . .

"There now, sweetheart. Sshhhhh."

The voice was low and gentle, and Frodo opened his eyes, blinking weakly as he was turned onto his side, then back, once more. A spoon touched his lips, and he swallowed: the blackberry mixture from earlier, brandy and chamomile, ginger and peppermint, an odd combination of tastes together, but not intolerable. The face that bent over him was vaguely reminiscent of. . .his aunt. . .Bryonia? Uncertain, he avoided trying to speak. Whomever she was, she eased him up, his head resting upon her arm. . .and when he was laid back against the pillows, he found them deliciously fresh and crisp, soft beneath his aching head. There was something Mamma always said when she was fluffing his pillows. . .what. . .what was it?

Cackle, cackle, Mother Goose,  
Have you any feathers loose?  
Truly have I, pretty fellow,  
Quite enough to fill a pillow.

He missed her. He missed her so much that his chest seemed to ache with it. . .and the coughing only made it worse. . . . But something was being rubbed onto his chest, some strong-smelling stuff. . .and then he was eased up again, with a soft jacket of some silky material slipped onto him. Hands eased him back down, then laid something over his chest, something hot. . .and fastened the jacket closely. He could make out the pungent aroma of mustard. . .along with a fainter smell, something milder. . . . A moment later, something touched his stomach, and he found that they were laying something there too, something hot over his belly. At last they covered him up warmly with fresh sheets and plenty of quilts and soft blankets, and he felt himself growing warmer, the spices and mixtures stinging his skin as he grew drowsy once more.

*********

Someone was stroking his hair.

This was not particularly surprising, though it was most comforting, and he nestled weakly against the reassuring touch even before he opened his eyes, recognising the scent of lavender, faint though it seemed.

She sat by his bed, leaning over the railing, her bright blue eyes warm and worried, one hand stroking his damp curls, the other snuggled beneath the blankets, holding his smaller one.

"There's my sweet one! My, but it's good to see those eyes open. . .you've given us quite a scare, and no mistake."

He curled his fingers round hers, clasping them as tightly as he could, though he realised she could withdraw them easily enough nonetheless. "Mamma. . .they said you couldn't come, that. . . ."

"Nonsense. Sshhhhh." She rose to lean further over the bed-rail separating them, placing her lips against his forehead, kissing him as she always did for good-night. . .or to take his temperature when she suspected illness. "Mamma's here."

He nodded faintly, feeling dizzy again, and tried to push away the covers, but she patted him gently through the layers.

"I know you don't feel well, poppet, but that's because you're so sick, and you must stay quiet in bed if you're to get well. And that means keeping covered up nice and warm, and letting those poultices do their work: flaxeed and mustard, and spices and linseed. Those will help your chest and tummy; they're all congested right now."

"It hurts. . . ."

"You will feel better soon, darling. . .Mamma's promise." Settling back into the chair, she continued to hold his hand, stroking his hair in a strangely soothing rhythm. Only then did Frodo realise that it was very dark still, and it was raining, for he could hear the sound outside. In the winter like this, with the ground often quite wet from previous rains, there was often talk that the Brandywine might flood, and all sorts of things were usually found on the banks when it did: lost combs and fallen buttons, little green frogs you could put in a cousin's bed to scare her, wriggling earthworms and sometimes wiggly tadpoles or water-walker bugs.

Only last year he had found a hair-ribbon, faded but still striped blue and green.

Chance, Aunt Esmeralda had insisted. There were likely several of those sold at market throughout the Shire and Buckland: though more complicated to dye than ordinary ribbons, they were hardly so rare as to be unique among all hobbits, as she reminded him.

Maybe.

But he had tied it carefully into a loose bow and put it in the box with the other, the only proof they had allowed him to have at first. Sometimes he thought that the not-so-faded one still smelled a little like lavender and honeysuckle.

It was pouring rain again.

Sniffling against a stuffy nose, he looked up, able to distinguish her even in the very dim light of the room. "Mamma. . .I'm sorry."

She laughed softly, a musical sound like little bells, ruffling his curls a bit as she continued to stroke them. "There's no need for that, Frodo-poppet. . .you can't help it! Only be a good boy for me now, and lie nice and still. . .and do as you're told. . .so we can have you well and strong again as soon as can be. . . ."

He couldn't help managing a smile.

"Close those eyes, now, dearest. Back to sleep."

And he obeyed, closing his eyes and continuing to hold fast to her hand, calmed by the soft singing there by his bed:

Smiling girls, rosy boys,  
Come and buy my little toys:  
Rabbits made of gingerbread  
And sugar ponies painted red.  
Handy spandy, sugary candy,  
Shire walnut rock;  
Bread and butter for your supper,  
That is all your mother's got.

Wash the dishes, wipe the dishes,  
Ring the bell for tea;  
Three good wishes, three good kisses,  
I will give to thee.

Rain on the green grass,  
And rain on the tree;  
Rain on the smial-top,  
But not on me. . . .


	11. Hushabye Darkness

Hush, little baby, hush, hush-a-bye,  
Mamma will sing you a sweet lullaby,  
Your Papa will keep you safe while you sleep  
And your Mamma over you close watch will keep.

Hush, my dear baby, hush, hush-a-bye,  
Don't you fret and please don't you cry -  
Tomorrow's troubles bring sorrow enough,  
Tonight, only sleep, upon pillows of fluff.

Hush, my sweet baby, hush, hush-a-bye,  
And slumber soft in Mamma's arms till morning is nigh,  
No troubles and sorrows shall tonight you alarm,  
For Mamma is here and will keep you from harm.

Hush, my heart's darling, hush, hush-a-bye,  
It makes Mamma weep to see how you cry,  
Tears and pains will come as they may,  
But so, too, will joys, and happier days.

-Traditional Buckland Lullaby often sung to fretful or sick children, according to notes recorded by Master Meriadoc Brandybuck during the Fourth Age

The sound of rain woke him.

Or did it?

It was difficult to tell. . .though in any event, he was awake now, and it was raining. The steady patter against the window was unmistakable. There was little light.

He felt very thirsty. He wanted something to drink, something cool and maybe a nice combination of sweet and tart at the same time.

There would be someone there, surely. He remembered there had been people there to take care of him. . .even his mamma. . . .

But wait.

How could. . .

The question required more thought than he could stomach attempting at present, so he simply prepared to call out, to try a simple hullo and see who might be there, as he felt too weak to make any effort at sitting up. The effort, however, promptly provoked a bout of coughing. . .though it did have another, much more pleasant, effect: someone appeared at his side immediately, clucking and raising him gently in arms that smelled of elder and catnip, rubbing his back until the spasm passed, rattling in his chest.

"There now, poor poppet. . .you've still got a nasty touch of croup there, haven't you? But at least you're doing better."

He looked up. Aunt Bryonia cradled him close. The restraints were gone, though the bed-railing was still attached on one side.

"Here's something for him to drink, Bri. . .let me try?"

The voice was so familiar that he scarcely dared to hope.

But half a moment later, there was the familiar scent of dusty books and freshly baked seed-cakes, mingled with a strong hint of Longbottom Leaf. . .

"Uncle Bilbo. . . ."

"Yes, lad. . .I'm here. Sssshh-sshhh-sshhh now; sip a little of this for me."

He drank obediently, eager for anything to ease the thirst, and this answered better than he could have even hoped: the delicious taste of blueberry shrub, exactly the combination of sweetness and sharpness he had wanted. Quickly he drained the cup, watching with some reluctance as Bilbo took it away.

"A bit more, Bri - there's plenty, and the doctor said it's fine - "

At once Frodo sighed with relief; the return of the refilled cup was eagerly welcomed, Frodo draining this in turn.

"There now. . .is that better, lad?"

"Mmm." Frodo gave what he could in the way of a nod.

"Good, good. . . ." Handing the empty cup back to Bryonia, Bilbo eased him back into the pillows, propping him up just a little: now Frodo could see the curtains drawn over his window, the closed door, an array of medicine-bottles and jars on the table at the foot of his bed. "You're safe and sound in your own bed, Frodo-lad. . .how are you feeling?"

The answer required some thought, and Frodo hesitated a moment before responding. "Sort of all-out. . .not so awful as I did, but. . .my chest feels funny. And my stomach. And - " He blinked, finding even that slightly difficult, as if his eyes were stiff. "My eyes too."

"Hopefully that will be better soon as well. Your fever's fallen; that's a very good sign. But you still need plenty of rest and quiet. . .and we shall have to watch you closely for a while."

Still blinking, Frodo frowned. It seemed almost a nightmare. . .except that he still felt unwell, and found that he wished to lie still in bed when usually he would have wanted to be up at once, playing with Uncle Bilbo, who was more fun than anyone else for games and stories. Turning his hands up, he studied them curiously, palm and back: covered with red splotches. Noticing, Bilbo chuckled, though his eyes did not seem to entirely lose the worry within their depths.

"It seems you've caught up to your cousins after all, in spite of yourself, my lad."

Cautiously Frodo started to push the covers away, but Bryonia's arms promptly caught him.

"No, no, no. . .you've got to stay warm and cosy, poppet; you've been terribly ill."

"Bri!" Bilbo's tone carried a note of humorous exasperation mingled with patience. "Let the lad have a look - half a moment won't kill him. He's still running a touch of fever, you said yourself. Lifting those covers won't do any harm."

Curiously Frodo pushed the covers back, starting slightly. He had no night-shirt on, and indeed, he found himself covered from head to toe in a blotchy red rash, spots covering every bit of his body that he could see. A moment's glimpse was all he caught before Bilbo was tucking him back in, pressing him gently to lie back.

"There now, Frodo-lad; you've had a look. Time to rest. . .do you think you could eat a bit of broth for me, or some jelly, while you have a story?"

"Nothing too excitable, now, Bilbo - "

Frodo stifled a smile. Aunt Bryonia thought many of Uncle Bilbo's best stories too exciting. But there was something more important for the moment: he had not forgotten, and he felt he had been patient quite long enough.

"Please. . .I'd rather Mamma gave it me while you tell the story."

The grown-ups exchanged looks.

A nagging ache began to grow in Frodo's chest.

"Please. . .I know she must be tired, but I promise I'll go right to sleep after. . . ."

Another exchange of looks, and they were both at his side, Bryonia's hand pressed to his forehead, Bilbo's touching his chest. It felt icy-cold. He squirmed.

The heaviness settled against his throat.

"Frodo. . .poppet. . .your mamma isn't here. She's gone. . .remember?"

He shook his head firmly. It couldn't be true. It wasn't. She had been there not so very long ago, just a little while earlier.

Bilbo pulled up a chair, seating himself right against the bed with a nod to Bryonia, who swiftly disappeared into the hall. Frodo watched her go, half-satisfied, only half-listening as Bilbo began to speak.

Surely she would fetch Mamma.

She had to.

". . .a pleasant little tale, from a book I brought for you all the way from Bree. Now. . .once upon a time there was a Pussy-cat called Ribby, who invited a little dog called Duchess, to tea.

'Come in good time, my dear Duchess,' said Ribby's letter, 'and we will have something so very very nice. I am baking it in a pie-dish - a pie-dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good! And *you* shall eat it all! *I* will eat muffins, my dear Duchess!' wrote Ribby."

"Truthfully, Uncle, I would think the muffins nicer," admitted Frodo, with a quick glance toward the door. "Depending on what was in everything, of course. . .but. . .if one had mushroom muffins, or ginger muffins, or blueberry-jam muffins, and a steak and kidney pie instead of shepherd's or mushroom. . . ."

Bilbo smiled, though Frodo noticed (with mounting fear) that the expression never quite reached his eyes. "I might just agree with you, my boy. I might, at that. Isn't that just like a little cat?"

Frodo nodded, glancing toward the door once more. "Mamma says I can have a puppy this spring if I like. . .I'm old enough to take care of one now. She ought to be here already, oughtn't she?"

"Frodo - "

He pulled his hand away from Bilbo's, sitting up. The room spun.

Smiling girls, rosy boys,  
Come and buy my little toys:  
Rabbits made of gingerbread  
And sugar ponies painted red.

"I want Mamma!"

Bilbo seized his arms, forcing him back against the bed, and he began to cry. He could hear her singing in the hall, low and sweet. . .coming up toward his room, not going away from it. . . . She was coming! Aunt Bryonia must have told her!

Rain on the green grass,  
And rain on the tree;  
Rain on the smial-top,  
But not on me. . . .

Gently the door opened.

And it was not Mamma.

"Bilbo, I've sent for the doctor and given orders for some fresh water to be brought up. We need to give him another bolus while we wait; that should help. . .he can't take any of the syrup for fever on an empty stomach. . . ."

He felt himself being lifted, his struggles failing against strong, steady arms, then soft hands against his bottom. . .more medicine. . . . Sobbing into Bilbo's shoulder, he dug his fingers into the thick folds of fabric, clinging tightly, wrenching the material in his hands. His uncle, one arm secure around Frodo's back and arms, finally reclaimed his seat, settling Frodo on his lap and at once beginning to gently rub the small back.

He could hear Bryonia continuing to talk over Bilbo's soft shushing.

"Poor mite. . .perhaps we should bundle him back into bed. I still don't think - "

"Leave the child in peace, Bri. I've got him. No need getting all flustered; the room's plenty warm, and my lap's warmer still. He's no worse for it, and he's not going to catch a chill."

One, two, buckle my shoe. . .

He had thought that the most amusing thing in the world when she first taught it him.

"What's a shoe, Mamma?

"Have you seen the great things some of your uncles wear when they go out into the wood, or to the Marish on business? Those are boots, and they're very like shoes. And *these* are shoes."

And she had shown him a beautiful pair of bright blue shoes with silver buckles. Made for her when she was a girl, she said. Bilbo had given them her at his birthday celebration the year she and Papa began courting, and she was as proud of them as anything in the world, even though she hardly ever wore them.)

Another cluck of Bryonia's tongue, though her tone was kind as she came to stroke his hair. "Sweetheart. . .try to rest."

Three, four, open the door.

(They would run to the door of his room, and she would play-act at knocking, letting Frodo open it with a deep bow and flourish, as if he were a grown gentlehobbit.)

Bilbo's voice close at his ear. "Frodo-lad. . .I'm sorry. It's not your mamma. I wish I could help you understand. . .I wish you *could* understand. It's only a trick of your mind; soon you'll be completely better, and those will stop. . . ."

Five, six, pick up sticks.

A fresh sob choked his throat even as he continued to listen.

He couldn't explain to them that the worst part was knowing.

Knowing the truth.

Seven, eight, lay them straight.

Nine. . .

What came after nine?

Burying his face in Bilbo's chest, he let them come. . .sobs in relentless waves that made him cough over and over, his chest aching. His eyes burned, so he kept them closed.

There was no use even in opening them, after all.

She was gone.


	12. Lavender's Blue

It hardly seemed worth waking.

But awake he was, coughing too much to go back to sleep.

At once Bilbo was there, though. . .it was a great relief when Frodo felt himself eased up gingerly, his back rubbed in smooth, steady circles. Gratefully he clung, afraid to let go: his chest hurt, and he still felt breathless and unwell.

But the coughing fit was passing, at least for the moment.

"There's my lad. Thirsty?"

He nodded. His throat felt as if someone had pounded it with a little hammer.

A cup touched his lips, and he sipped eagerly: blueberry shrub again, much to his pleasure. It tasted better than anything else he could call to mind at the moment, even plain water. Opening his eyes, he blinked against the remaining discomfort, noticing with some pride that his bed remained as it had been: only one side still had the old railing up. Bilbo sat upon the edge of the bed, though a chair was pulled so close that clearly he must have been sitting there at first. But the room was dark save for a few shaded lamps, which left Frodo feeling somewhat disoriented. He finished the drink, finding his thirst slaked, and allowed the elder hobbit to ease him back down, settling him on his side in a soft nest of pillows and covers before moving to the chair.

"How are you feeling, my boy?"

"Lil' better, I guess." He gave a half-shrug, too tired to express much more. "I wish Mamma were here." A worried look flashed through Bilbo's eyes. "I know. . .I know, she. . .she can't; I 'member. . .but I miss her. . .'spec'ly right now. . . ."

A gentle hand stroked his brow: Bilbo pulled his chair closer, lowering his face closer to Frodo's level. "Of course, Frodo-lad. . .of course you do. I'm sorry."

Nodding faintly, Frodo curled up, snuggling into a ball. It was wonderful to have Bilbo here, really. . .it was only. . .only that Mamma would. . .well, Mamma did everything differently. She would make almost a game of it, with stories and rhymes and songs, even ones his aunts said he should be outgrowing by now.

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly,  
Rosemary's green,  
When I am queen  
You shall be king. . . .

He had been eleven then. . .the last winter before they died.

Yule had, as now, come and gone. . .and he'd come down with a miserable bout of the mumps, his jaws and tummy and throat aching terribly. She'd made snow cream for him, and offered nice soothing things to drink and eat while she sat with him. . .and she said there was a story to go with this rhyme, a story for which this was the perfect time of year. . . .

"What's a king, Mamma?"

She laughed, her eyes sparkling. "The Big Folk used to have a king, so the stories tell. Something like the Thain or the Master, only over a great deal more land and many more people. . .and of course, they like to do different things than we do, so it isn't quite the same. Sometimes kings make things very peaceful and proper between lands; other times they start or worsen great wars. And the queen is his wife, who has to run their home, which is like Great Smials and Brandy Hall put together and many times larger over than even that. She has the king's ear, which means she can speak to him on very important matters that might otherwise escape his attention, which is a very good thing for their people."

He frowned as she helped him turn in bed so she could sponge his back. "But. . .when people say 'when the king returns,' they say that about things like. . .well, about Uncle Bilbo acting like everyone else, or us living like 'proper Bagginses'. . .things they don't think will happen."

"That's because the Big People's king was killed a very long time ago. . .in a great war, and while there is talk that his son lived, which means the king could come again someday. . .it isn't likely. We sent hobbits to help. . .but my great-great-aunt said they were never heard from again, and word came that they never reached the king. No one knows what became of them."

The room suddenly felt colder, but Frodo felt decidedly less bored. "And what if the king ever did come again? If. . .Mamma, if you had the chance to help him. . .to help the Big Folk. . .would you?"

Turning him onto his back, she smiled, sponging his chest and tummy. "That depends, poppet. I don't believe in going away and getting involved in faraway Big Folk wars just for some sort of taste for adventure. . .but the king was good to the Shire, and what happens to one part of the world happens to all, sooner or later. If you don't help your neighbour put out the fire on his roof, before you know it, your own home may catch flame, and you've no-one to blame but yourself. But the chance of the king returning is about as likely as the chance of my becoming queen." She continued to bathe him, looking quite amused.

"Mamma?"

"Yes, poppet?"

"I think you'd make the most wonderful queen in all the world."

"Frodo?"

Frodo started from his reverie: Bilbo was stroking his brow with a damp compress, trying anxiously to capture his attention. "I'm sorry. . .I was just thinking about. . .just remembering. . . ."

The elder hobbit smiled tenderly, though there seemed a deep sadness in his eyes. "Of course, lad. Could you. . .would you mind sharing with me about. . .well, what did your mother do that made things better? I want to try and help; I can't replace her, or your father, but I'll do all I can. Talk to me, lad. . .please?"

A soft sigh escaped Frodo at the thought. What was it?

"I know having her here would be the largest part. . .but the rest. And I can listen. Your Aunt Bri doesn't like my talking to you about this, since it's important you stay quiet and warm and calm, but I don't know what we can do to best help you without asking. We can't bring your parents back, but. . .are things homelike enough for you?"

He hesitated. Wordlessly Bilbo began rubbing his back. "I. . .I think that's the worst. . .not being able to. . .see her again, or. . .or thinking I hear her and. . .I don't. . .but. . . ." He swallowed tensely against the lump in his throat. "Everyone here's always so busy. . .always with their own family. . .when I'm ill mostly I have to stay in my room alone, and if Aunt Bri's here, she takes care of me, but. . .even she's busy sometimes, and. . . ."

Bilbo nodded, his expression sombre. "What did your mother do?"

"She. . .mostly just the same things you and Aunt Bri do, I think. . .when I got ill she'd stay with me, and not leave me by myself, and give me nice things. . .things that didn't make me feel sick drinking or eating them. . .and she'd give me a bath and fresh sheets and nice blankets and all. . . . Sometimes she would sing, too. . .and. . ." He hesitated.

Bilbo might think it foolish.

Forsythia certainly said it was. A lot of his cousins said that.

Then again, he hardly cared.

"Yes, my boy?"

"She'd pick me up. . .she said I'd never be too big for her to rock. Never ever."

A warm smile reached all the way to Bilbo's eyes this time. "And you wouldn't, Frodo. I knew Prim well enough to know that. You could have grown as big as one of the Big Folk and she'd have found a way still, somehow, I suspect."

Frodo nodded weakly, his throat and eyes still stinging. . .and beginning to burn.

She was really gone.

Attempting to swallow a sob, he managed at best a shaky gulp, beginning to cry. At once Bilbo gathered him up, wrapping him in the quilt as he shushed, voice nearly a whisper.

"Oh, my poor boy. . .you've had a rough time of it since, haven't you? And I've been off down in Hobbiton thinking everything just needed to be left alone, that you'd be taken care of here just as well as if they were still alive. . .oh, Frodo. . .forgive a selfish old hobbit. . . ."

At once Frodo nestled gratefully into Bilbo's arms, clinging fretfully as he wept, responding with only a weak nod.

"I know you miss her, Frodo. . .we all do. But. . .we should have done better by you than we have."

A faint smile: that much he felt up to. Bilbo was different. Bilbo wasn't like the others. "You're nice, Uncle Bilbo. . .always coming to see me. . .and staying when I'm sick. . .and taking care of me. . .and bringing presents. . . ."

"You're a kind soul, my lad. But rest now. . .rest, if you can, and then we'll try you with something on your stomach once you're feeling a little better."

Frodo felt at first as if he should protest: his stomach still felt shaky and tight, though definitely not full. But it hardly seemed worth the effort.

And besides. . .perhaps he would feel a little better after more rest.

Snuggling comfortably against Bilbo's chest and shoulder, he curled up, allowing the elder hobbit to cradle him close. The sense of gradually-increasing movement half-startled him, causing him to close his eyes for a moment against the fear of returning dizziness. . .but then he realised.

The rocking-chair.

They were in Mamma's rocking-chair.

"Why ever would I want to be queen, poppet?"

"Because." He gazed up at her in confusion. "You're beautiful and smart and you'd be able to tell the king good things to do. . . ."

"Me?" Laughter: she continued to bathe him, finally tucking him gently, though firmly, back in beneath the counterpane. "Ay, poppet, I would hardly make a royal anything. But you. . ."

Her blue-grey eyes grew suddenly very serious, and she took his chin in her hand.

"Something tells me that it will not be my hand that guides a king's. . .but I have held a hand that will."


	13. Wishes & Beggars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nursery-rhyme which appears in this chapter is actually piecework - two sections from "The Sugar-Plum Tree," as reproduced in Lullabies and Poems for Children in the Everyman's Library Pocket Poets series, selected and edited by Diana Secker Larson, published by Alfred A. Knopf of New York and Toronto in 2002.

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?  
'Tis a marvel of great renown!  
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea  
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;

The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet  
(As those who have tasted it say)  
That good little children have only to eat  
Of that fruit to be happy next day. . . .

"Bilbo Baggins, you can't be serious. Now come, be reasonable about this."

"I am serious, and I'm being more than reasonable. More reasonable, in fact, than most of this entire Hall, if you ask me. And keep your voice down; you'll wake the poor lad."

"You didn't seem to care about that when you decided to bring it up. Just when did you begin planning this?"

Frodo snuggled cosily into his nest of blankets. He was back in bed; that much he could tell. . .but there was a comfortable cloth over his eyes, a soft compress, and he felt rather disinclined to remove it.

Or to let the adults know that he had just woken after all. . .they always stopped the interesting conversation then. And this certainly sounded like the sort of conversation Aunt Bri and Bilbo would promptly end if they knew.

So he remained quiet, listening, eyes still closed even beneath the compress.

Not that listening was easy. . .it took a great deal of concentration, and his left ear ached.

"Bri. . . ." Bilbo sighed, his voice weary with the tired, frustrated tone grown-ups used when they had been having the same argument for more than a few minutes. "The child loves you. And you've done wonderfully by him. But you heard the doctor as well as I did: Frodo's still very ill. He's on the mend, but he'll need a great deal of close attention. . .for some time. What if you have to return to Michel Delving?"

Aunt Bri hesitated, sounding flustered when she finally spoke. "I'll just have to - make better arrangements, should it become absolutely necessary."

"Pshaw!" Frodo had to stifle a smile as Bilbo snorted (such a funny noise he made, like an annoyed pony). "There may not be time. . .and there aren't exactly many people here with the interest and time to look after even another well child properly, much less a convalescent. What he needs is a good long rest, with plenty of attention. A bit of spoiling would go a long way; goodness knows he hasn't had over-much since the accident. About time he got to know Hobbiton a bit better, too, being half Baggins and all. Dora's willing to come over a bit, and my gardener's wife has a holeful of children and enough advice to answer anything we might need to get on properly. I've plenty of extra space. . .his own large room, a big feather-bed, a garden for him to take the air in when he's strong enough to sit outside, a sitting-room with plenty of space and a good fireplace - well-aired, at that, a good warm kitchen. . . . Surely you must admit that's enough for one lad. I'm prepared to pay for whatever he needs: medicines, special foods, anything that might amuse him. . . ."

"Bilbo, you'll have him spoilt - "

"Please." Frodo almost opened his eyes; he could never recall hearing such longing in Bilbo's voice before.

In anyone's, for that matter.

A sudden throb of pain along his ear nearly caused him to cry out, but he resisted. Bilbo would never take him to Hobbiton if there was the slightest hint he might not be recovering properly: nobody wanted a sickly orphan, after all.

Not even Bilbo.

Another throb of pain.

How desperately he longed to tell! How he wished to open his eyes, to tell them of the terrible ache throbbing along one ear and starting down the other, of the funny feeling in his tummy. . . .

He should.

He knew he should.

But what was that thing Mamma always said about wishes and seed-cakes? i If wishes were seed-cakes, beggars would feast/i she said. i But wishes are neither seed-cakes nor mushrooms - /i

What's a beggar, Mamma? he had asked curiously, fascinated - and horrified - to learn that some hobbits wandered without a home. In far-away Bree, such hobbits did, Mamma said, exist. . .unlike the Shire, and Buckland, where no self-respecting family would dream of letting anyone in the family (however eccentric, even decidedly odd, they might seem) wander the road alone, without a cosy hobbit-hole or decent meals every day as best as could be provided.

The rest of the world, Frodo had promptly decided, must be quite different indeed.

His ear hurt, and he curled up in bed, shifting miserably. Hot. Too hot. The compress no longer felt comfortable. Everything felt far too hot. His throat tickled awfully, itching inside, causing him to finally abandon the effort of appearing asleep, forcing him to cough. Someone sat him up just a little, rubbing his back in soothing circles, then laid him back down, propping him on soft pillows. His face prickled, and at once he rubbed it with both fists until they were drawn away by firm, but gentle, hands.

"No, no, Frodo-lad. . . ."

But it itched, and hurt. . .and that was Bilbo's voice! Uncle Bilbo, who wouldn't want some mewling wisp of a weakling - as Frodo had heard himself called by select cousins - to take home. . . . Bilbo, the brave adventurer, who would want someone strong and courageous like himself. . . .

He couldn't help it.

Despite his best efforts, Frodo began to cry.

For the pain in his ears, for the strange feeling in his tummy, for the ache in his chest from coughing.

For the truth that Mamma was gone.

For the fear that Bilbo would no longer want him.

But this time he felt warm arms gathering him close, someone cradling him in a blanket, catching him up in their arms as if he were still only a fauntling. . . .

"There now, Frodo-lad. . .don't cry! I'm here. Now rest your poor eyes and try to sleep, before you do yourself an injury. . . ."

The voice dropped to a warm whisper.

"I'm here. I shan't leave you, my boy. Ever."

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,  
With stripings of scarlet or gold,  
And you carry away of the treasure that rains  
As much as your apron can hold!  
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me  
In your dainty white nightcap and gown,  
And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree  
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.


	14. Dream Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotations are from Lullabies and Poems for Children in the Everyman's Library Pocket Poets series. The first is traditional Swedish; the second is from Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Land of Counterpane."

Slumber time is drawing near,  
Night is gath'ring round us.  
Stars will all be bright and clear,  
When the sandman has found us.

Dream sweet dreams the long night through,  
Mother will be near to you.  
Go to sleep my dear one.

-Shire Traditional

The clink of his favourite nursery-dishes awoke Frodo.

It had been a long time since he heard that sound. . .such a very long time. Mamma had used them, but they had been put away when his parents died, and he had promptly grown up, without fuss or pomp, even though most of the other children relinquished their special dishes much more slowly, and still had a favourite cup or bowl their mothers would pull out whenever they had had a difficult day or felt poorly. Not so Frodo.

Until now. . .for there they were. Opening his eyes, he found that it was no dream: white dishes with blue trim and blue-coloured dragonflies upon them sat upon a tray carefully positioned over his legs. There was a cup with small blue bunnies dancing about the rim, and a feeding-cup designed so that he could either feed himself or be fed by a grown-up, this one decorated with bright green frogs pursuing tiny lady-birds. Secretly the dragonflies remained his favourites, though he cherished a distinct love for the others as well. . .especially when such delicious scents arose from them as now! He felt terribly hungry, as if he had not eaten for weeks. . . .

All out. That was how he felt. All out. . .drained. . .as if he'd been emptied inside and left hollow and wobbly. He wanted to sit up, but wasn't certain he could manage the effort without falling sideways over the edge of the bed. . .like a rag-doll, he thought wryly with half-amusement. What a fix I'd be in then, and spilling the food besides!

Tentatively he considered how he felt. His ears still hurt, and he wasn't entirely certain about the feeling in his stomach. But the terrible headache had gone, and with it much of the misery of the past. . .how long had it been now?

"Here now, lad. Try a little of this."

Bilbo!

Much to his delight, it was indeed Bilbo who bent over his bed, slipping a strong arm beneath him and propping pillows behind his back and head, easing him into a comfortable reclining position.

"There! Gave us quite a scare, you did, but that's over, isn't it? What do you say to a cup of something to steady you up a bit?"

Frodo wasn't at all certain, but nodded dutifully, determined to seem obedient. Gingerly Bilbo took up the feeding-cup and held it to his lips, tipping it just enough for him to sip.

Oh!

Oh, that is GOOD.

Chicken and mushroom broth, delicate in flavour - thin, not too rich, easy on his stomach. At once he began to drink more enthusiastically, evoking a chuckle from Bilbo.

"Easy now, lad! There's more where that came from. Slowly, now; not too much all at once."

But to Frodo nothing had tasted so good in weeks. Whether because of the food itself or because of the company - or perhaps both - he found himself thirsty and hungry, and the salty broth seemed, strangely enough, to help both.

"Frodo."

He looked up, feeling his stomach suddenly knot at the gravity of Bilbo's expression. What if Bilbo had changed his mind about wanting an orphaned cousin for any length of time?

"Frodo-lad. . ." Bilbo took a deep breath, setting the newly emptied cup aside. "This isn't a very easy thing for me to talk about, but some things have to be said, and - well, you know I've always lived alone, ever since my parents died, before your time."

That's it. He doesn't want me.

"And I've never seen any reason to change that, after all - until now."

What?

Bilbo reached to cup one of Frodo's hands in his own. "It's going to be a long time getting you better, I'm afraid, my boy. You've a long road ahead of you. The doctor says you need a great deal of rest, plenty of fattening up on a proper diet, pleasant surroundings. . . . Now, you and I both know your auntie will do all she can to give you those here, but. . ." Here he lowered his voice. "I know how it is in family smials with plenty of youngsters. Never the same as it is when there's only one of you around, is it?"

Frodo shook his head.

"So I thought. Well, how would you like to come and live with me for a while? At least until summer comes, and maybe on up into that. It'll be a long trip getting there, because we'll have to break it up with stopping at inns so you won't tire out and get chilled, but the doctor's said if we bundle you up properly it might do you as much good as staying here, or more. We'd wait till the weather's mild enough; it's not been even seasonably cold lately, so there's hope of a bit more warmth in the air yet." Bilbo stopped abruptly, pinking as if embarrassed, awaiting the reply, and began to stir the contents of the little dragonfly bowl.

"I would love that more than anything."

At once Bilbo looked as pleased as a child surrounded by Yule gifts, much to Frodo's relief. "Well, then! That's settled! I shall make the arrangements, and we shall let you grow a bit stronger while we watch the weather. . .and soon enough we'll be off to Bag End!" He held out a spoonful of applesauce. "Here now, try a little more. . .first things first; if your aunt finds this tray full, I think I'd be better off facing Smaug again!"

Frodo laughed, but accepted, continuing to eat as Bilbo fed him the rest of the tray's contents: applesauce, a bit of dry toast from his dragonfly plate, and apple juice in the blue bunny cup. Though he knew he should consider himself too old for such things, it felt wonderful to have something of his parents back again for comfort, since they could not be there to comfort him.

Or could they not?

He still could not entirely convince himself that his mother's presence had been the stuff of fever-dreams, and nothing more. There was something too real in all of them. . . .

Yet for now, did it matter?

"Frodo-lad?"

Frodo blinked, looking up abruptly. "Yes, Uncle Bilbo?"

"Are you all right?"

Firmly Frodo nodded. "Yes, Bilbo. I'm fine. Only a little tired."

"Then sleep, lad. I'll be here when you wake, and we'll have another meal and a story."

Burying his face in the pillows as Bilbo eased the supporting ones away, allowing him to lie down comfortably once more, Frodo sighed contentedly, closing his eyes. He felt Bilbo's hands about his shoulders, tucking him in warmly.

It would be all right now, he mused cosily, curling up.

Bilbo would watch over him.

I was the giant great and still  
That sits upon the pillow-hill,  
And sees before him, dale and plain,  
The pleasant land of counterpane.

\- finis -


End file.
